To my Son, on The First Day That You Care About How Your Hair Looks

I can almost hear it,
the rip-pop of the bubble
that you lived in,

like a birth and
like a death,
as the inside air

rushes out
and the outside air
rushes in.

And now,
you see everything.
But please

don’t forget
the way that you
were born to see.

Like a crystal vase,
like an honest face,
you are

the morning.
Carve your place
in the sky,

no matter
who is watching,
and write your name

with your heart
each day, as sure as
the abundant sun

with warmth,
generosity,
and love uninhibited.

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Fortune Teller/Erzulie

Voodoo girl,
you are my guru,
my sister,
my teacher,
my midnight preacher,
bare all, dare all,
beware all,
stoke your fire,
your deep desire.
These are the days of reckoning,
of beckoning,
and beckon you do,
by revelation,
quiet invitation
of all that is you,
undeniably true,
fortune teller,
fare-the-weller,
like a Petro loa,
a bayou boa,
jump in, jump in
to your center card,
your heart is your art,
your map, your chart,
lest you discover
this war is over,
your ship is sailing on
like the ripe red dawn,
and everything you need
is already on board,
your peace, your sword,
your just reward,
all you need tonight
by the white candlelight
is faith restored
and to climb aboard.

A Love Poem

With eyes
that do not
look away,

you listen
to my breath
as the sky paints

sunlight onto
midnight blue.
Like a bird

made of courage,
you fling words
off a morning cliff

before you know
if they have
wings to fly.

I want to bury my face
in your downy feathers
while you teach me

to love
like this morning rain,
early and generous,

and to receive
like thirsty ground.
Pink clover blossoms

dapple the grassy
hillside. There are
more today than even

yesterday. Everything
is finding its way
toward opening.