Daria Smith Giraud
The clapping of my beaded braids
were downbeats to dirty New York streets.
Brand new shell top Adidas chasing a gaze
of graffiti tags thrown up subway upbeats
where summers were my treasure under stars and moon.
I’d dance like Ancestors with aether in my lungs
under Union Square women heavenly commune
shekeres chasing trance in polyrhythmic tongues.
And I and I embodied in space and time
channeling forgotten pasts forbidden to die
from Pangea to Americas to this paradigm.
We’d meet in this plane where the dance survived.
Serenaded by a sea of black bodies jumping …
what He thinks—or if.
a zillion light years wide,
pressed to the fizzy heart
of the universe,
a hydrogen gasbag
folded in on itself
like table napkins
on the Hindenburg,
or a quantum quesadilla.
What we call spiral galaxies,
He calls soup and sandwiches.
What we call supernovas,
He calls shoe polish.
What we call black holes,
He calls a paycheck.
What we call space,
He calls the barstool.
What we call the Big Bang,
He calls Louise.
It’s why the sun’s
and the moon
so matter of …