On Valentine's Day

Half-way around the world from each other, I feel the soft-warmth of your breath about my neck, run my fingers through your hair as a lion out of his lair, on the prowl, ready for the kill; I am thoroughly enjoying the chase though, so I am in no rush to reach the peak... the truth is not that a prophet is not respected in his native land, it is that the been-to prophet is respected for his gem of ideas and experience harvested abroad... thus have I become a perennial sojourning prophet to my folk, seeing best from my vantage abroad, having wrought this protective distance from kin and kith, friend and foe...I have no stake but fealty to truth alone, being unfettered and unleashed in my thoughts.... Abe, I feel this rumbling in the jungle of my tummy; the sky of my stomach is not overcast, a lot of forage in my fridge, and so I cannot complain of hunger.... Abe, the rumbling is about this bell of rose- petals I witnessed in my dream, petals forming a luscious whorl about your loins, blinding flashes of searchlights a search party left on its trail: the lost one had refused to be found, or perhaps he had receded into the night and stygian past, beyond all hope of recovery and repair... petals of single roses where your nipples ought to have been... still, this is no matter of nipples and loins, this sacred search for love peace and understanding.... Some are making it big and fabulous, that is the draw... for the rest of us, it is simply a matter of innocent admiration and applause... gradually, I am making my way back to where it all began, gradually, I am recovering my dignity, gradually, I am being made whole again....

At your age and sublime cast of mind, you have seen and heard it all... still, it is day one on creation's day, still there is more to learn and know, many more times to love and be loved... and so I keep staring deep into the windows of your heart and so

Author: Kwame Okoampa-Ahoofe, Jr.

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