You speak
about things
I know about,

stubborn doors of nakedness,
feral,
in the moonlight,
while unloading
magical miniature
daydreams,
onto Harlem doorsteps.
You speak
& I hum,
into myself,
a language
I’ve never heard,
a song
that will not un-sing itself;
a sort of lyrical madness,
in the space
where the homeless
man and woman
who were dead,
existed
in a tiny silk box.
The murals paint your
wild blonde hair
with poetic ceremonies;
tamed moments;
bestial;
undomesticated;
they cannot sweep you away. And as you cradled your losses
& formed screaming walls
into mad speeches,
the magic of the untamed
speak to me.
They provoke chaotic beginnings,
living where everything ends,
assembling my life;
so that I can once again
become myself.
It is now,
that I know,
there are some things in this world
that speak magic, and like you,
those things are
exquisitely uncultivated; feral
and they whisper a language that shouldn’t be tamed

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Kay Bell is a bibliophile who can be quoted: “If it makes me cry, sweat or bleed, then it is worth writing about”. She has been published in the book Brown Molasses Sunday: An Anthology of Black Women Writers, online by Moko: Caribbean Arts and Letters, The Write Launch, PRONG & PROSY as well as other venues. She is a MFA candidate at The City College of New York