The tropical heat percolated on the small of her back,

It was the early 60s, in Trenchtown.

 

The flies bothered them only in the morning,

In the night, they clung to the ceiling and watched them make love.

 

His dreadlocks the color of crematory smoke,

Spread like tree roots across her satin pillow.

His eyes sad but words hopeful.

 

She straddled him with lust but found faith when he was inside her,

A black poet, a black Jesus.

 

No man felt as electric,

When he danced there was lightning.

When he sang, there was peace.

Hour 11, Prompt 11