Scribe Called Quest

Wish a Nubian man would trail
the hints to cursive
as if always standing in front of him
Without me he couldn’t move
Deep breaths chosen to ration out
Filtering through our bodies

If he didn’t hear from me
Summoning the melodic warbles
Of swallows to fill him in
Sounding like soul violins
Diminutive tambourines

Wouldn’t mind cascading into
A satisfying slumber til I arrived there
Knowing of mutual instincts
Recalling hips swaying to a Congo beat
Keeping him mesmerized
Strokes through ink masses for technique
Descriptive of sistah’s
Ethereal yet nubile

Wonder if he would scribble
Understand it is his spirituality I
have at heart
Wanting him not only to study God
But to search and find him
Imprint it’s mark inside of him like
like seeds soon to be harvested
He could take charge of it entirely

I wish he could fall

Become entangled in a dark
Slanted gaze amidst mellow cheeks
Avoidance of urges to pry loose
Seeing himself sustained
That he could be thriving there
Living in cultivated lair where he
feeds and stimulate my mental grind
Caring for him in and out of time

A new age Othello
Enthralled with the likeness of his very skin
Visage of my face with in
Ideas faint of my preoccupation for him
growing thin
Words just at the surface of a grin
Raising a private pen but before I’d begin
I wish he would scribe…
Me