The lizards unravel their tails poolside
to listen to poets’ tales, thirty years ago
these stories did not exist, a black girl
ate a pickle somewhere and our fathers
cooled our mothers’ breasts with ice.
We write suras on the dried femurs
of griffins, tangle in each other’s
poolfrizzed hair, and sing covers
of ballads that once crackled on car radios, this
is where mermaids come to swim, where
warlocks sharpen scimitars, and orpheus
hatches in the throats of black boys
who maybe keep a guitar in a soft case
back home, home wherever home is, this
is the only home many will ever know, no
rain eroding ceiling paint or memo pads
just iambs and assonance and love affairs
that pull apart like thick smiles of grapefruit.
We love the sting of citrus in our nail beds,
we tolerate tobasco in our eyes. We regal
fools. Our tongues beat sore on polished words,
truths we only wish that we rehearsed.