I’m reading Their Eyes were Watching God for the second (maybe third) time. I wrote this poem years ago. (Photo taken in Guatemala)

for z post

(Zora Neale) Hurston is quite the writer.

She writes as though every sentence were a poem.

So that each word sounds as definite as the final click of a closed screen door behind her as she snaps into the house on a hard wood floor. The 1930’s in a little dusty ill-lit bungalow.

Breezing by the tasseled lampshades, on a whim, her fingers trail behind a plush red velvet sofa.

I feel as though I can taste the same cigarette smoke she inhaled and then exhaled. It, the smoke, lingers down the hall toward a lover who waits patiently up the staircase. And not much further into the house, the sound of her high heals stepping, like her words telling, tell him she has arrived.

She takes the reading, like her lover, following aged planks toward a loitering thought. Casually making her way to him, precisely stepping, circle-ling – almost divine. She, a dark skinned women of words, reaching her hand down deep into his lap carefully – a small offering of sugar –

And in a great leap, PLOP! Like a child she sits.

Her well thought out scenario of sentences, comes to a conclusion – laid down expectedly, like beautiful kiss planted.

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