love, new york, eleven a.m.

and it was during the last round of holy rolling
on a Sunday morning that the hymns became
lullaby/ and the preacher's drone stroked the eardrum
like a tired hand/ and the eyes slipped into the excellence
of a dreamt mattress.

eleven a.m. and all the critics love you in new york.

and it was off the edge of the mattress
after an evening of sweat-filled eyes/ lusting/ open
to the possibilities of love/ and the lack of sleep
heavy in the air/ and the empty
corsets taking up precious room in the bureau

eleven a.m and all the critics love you in new york

and it was the cracks in the photo of san lazaro on the bureau
faded with years of supplication to a god that
listened only sometimes/ and it was the faith that
shook to the bone/ and it was the whispered prayer
that reached the roof

eleven a.m. and all the critics love you in new york

and it was the afternoon of sunbathing on the roof
outstanding like girl you knock me out soaked into pores/
and it was the catcalls of quema quema quemarikwini
bugalu lovely cocoa butter skin smashed the barrio
like no worries, no worries, I got this sun

eleven a.m. and all the critics love you in new york

and it was the first glint of weekend sun
doused in the chrism of holy lovemaking the night before/
and it was the long kiss goodbye when the taxi came
(life has other plans sometimes)/ and it was the phone call
expected sometime after church

eleven a.m. and all the critics love you in new york

and I still enjoy watching the crowd file out of the church
from my perch across Madison/ and I still feel you in
my joints at the scent of fried catfish/ and I still know
your body when lenny plays I belong to you and you (you)
you belong to me too (but I still hate catfish)

eleven a.m. and all the critics love you in new york

and the catfish frying in the church/ and the lord's roof
pondering the sun/ and the mattress and the bureau
say their amens/ and you are morning gone, still, loved

in new york.