The Man of Axum

Fall,

Falling Stars—follow these sweating hands of mine

bracing the beef of obsidian

thighs; shotgun-wet, my tribulation unbinds

itself. Black, velvet inundation

under toe in my glad denial, I’ll bend

with the river of your breath inside

the tomb of my chest, gripping as I descend

the obelisk—the stele inscribed

with a scarred line—what my soot-covered suitor

will reveal in time. Man of Axum,

bleed into my treasury’s lifeless stupor

civil isolation; collapse in

sighs at the foot of our obliteration.

In fragments, speak, Man, of exiled climes;

of princely summers where we, my Nubian

Lover, stitched tunnels and undermined

all.