I sprawl on the pavement
in my August skin,
tracking ants and bloodsuckers,
dust and grit powdering
my bronzed limbs.
The ants scurry my eyes
with their restless patterns,
the bloodsuckers,
fat and crimson,
thrill only my boredom,
and I blood my thumb with a few.
Tired of entomology
I sit up, wipe my hands
on my blue shorts,
and with long tempted fingers
reach down to my white dap,
pinch a lace head between my fingertips,
and fray my mother’s knot,
shaping another in my belly
that tightens the more I fumble
with the cotton strands,
until all I hold is an uncoiled Gordian Knot.
I call to my mother,
but my words meander
in the summer heat,
abandoning me to
solve the puzzle in my hands,
the confusion in my heart.
I stumble fingers,
knuckle knots,
pick loose,
try again,
fail again.
Then I breathe.
I study the other knot,
trace its curls and swirls,
and begin to hear
a sweetness in its circles,
a melody in its construction,
and I conjure a butterfly 8,
glimpsing the liberation in betrayal,
settling the strands that tie me
to my dap, and my self to be.
