Touched by Dusk, We Know Better Ourselves

By Sasha Pimentel

You map my cheeks in gelatinous dark, your torso
floating, a forgotten moon, and a violin

crosses the sheets while you kiss me your mouth
of castanets. I believed once my uncles lived

in trees, from the encyclopedia I’d carried
to my father, The Philippines, the Ilongot hunting

from a branch, my father’s chin in shadows. I try
to tell you about distance, though my body

unstitches, fruit of your shoulder lit by the patio
lamp, grass of you sticky with dew, and all

our unlit places folding, one
into another. By dead night: my face in the pillow,

your knuckles in my hair, my father whipping my
back. How to lift pain from desire, the word

safety from safe, me, and the wind
chatters down gutters, rumoring

rain. I graze your stubble, lose my edges mouthing your
name. To love what we can no longer

distinguish, we paddle the other’s darkness, whisper
the bed, cry the dying violet hour; you twist

your hands of hard birches, and we peel into
our shadows, the losing of our names.

Dear Black Child - Grace Storm Ad

Dear Black Child - Grace Storm Ad
Dear Black Child - Grace Storm Ad