Blues Suite

by Gregory Powell

we sat under a
new moon, counting patient stars
in a single tongue.

§

a hollow shell curved
in the pit of my stomach,
emptied of my name.

§

she dreamed a woman
sprinkled black pepper over
my eyes while i slept.

§

i remembered when
i wrapped lost stars in tinfoil
for her morning meal.

§

when she craned her neck
to the moon’s new side, i was
there, numbered each kiss.

§

i learned. her curving
body was a winding road
without compass, guide.

§

our brash words struck bone.
time did not set broken bones/
didn’t rewrite our past.

§

while she slept i sniffed
her raven-black hair, rose water
banished to this shore.

§

she counted her spent
words in our straw house. she hoped
they consumed all air.

§

if i spoke in wood
i would cast her shapely legs
in mahogany.

§

red carnation pressed
in waxed paper/slipped in a
book’s stale leaves…fragrant.

§

above her, my back
spread to the earth’s four corners,
covered sky sea stone.

§

her soft lips were the
purple of eggplant. i tasted
peppers when we kissed.

§

i gargled her name
in my stale dry mouth/tasted
sweet peppermint rain.

§

i rested the moon
in her lap, filled the hole that
remained with my words.

§

known smells (roses/thyme/
vanilla) reminded me
she once rested here.

§

“if you find my name
on your way home, please, keep it
until you return.”


Gregory Powell is an MFA student at the University of Alabama. His work has appeared in Callaloo, Cairn, Tar Wolf Review, Mosaic, and The Langston Hughes Review.