April by E. Doyle-Gillespie

• And I suppose
  these furrows
  you dig in my back,
  like Maori signatures
  and plantation
  scourge roadmaps,
  are my rites of
  passage.
  You etch
  your folklore
  into me
  on nights that you
  wear only
  leather boots,
  and that golden ring
  from the sidewalk vendor
  in your navel.
  Your teach me
  my lessons
  between
  bare thighs slick
  with your musty damp
  and in the red
  curve of French
  lips that take
  me with the same
  elan they do
  Haitian street food and
  thick, sweet, black
  coffee at the
  Top of the World Cafe.