Poems Rethabile Likes

Bachata by Geoffrey Philp | Poems Rethabile Likes Bachata by Geoffrey Philp After every party in our house when the reggae, reggaeton, R&B have exhausted the younger couples, and they sit separately to cool down, I want to dance with you, the way our friends, Miguel and Ramona, who have made a promise, that despite their struggle with lawyers, bill collectors, and cancer, they will never leave each other, and whenever the bachata begins— we stop to watch how he will catch her— she spins out of his arm's reach they pass like strangers, but then his hand finds the small of he...

i carry your heart with me by E.E. Cummings | Poems Rethabile Likes "i carry your heart with me" by E.E. Cummings Poet E.E. Cummings reads "i carry your heart with me." Find his books 📖 Read along i carry your heart with me i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling) i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide) and ...

Come to me, his blood by Martha Rhodes | Poems Rethabile Likes Come to me, his blood by Martha Rhodes Come to me, his blood, so I may cup you, be reservoir and ladle, both— clean, store, and stir. Then serve you back to him. Come to me, his blood, ill, so I may warm, sieve, and funnel you back to him; his cheeks ruddy again, his head in my lap. The wind is up! and sails our boat across Farm Pond, our friends on shore waving us to picnic time— a hammock-nap, a swim— all four of us, all well. Not dozens of summers ago, but now, this final Sunday in July, ...

Killing by Rethabile Masilo | Poems Rethabile Likes Killing by Rethabile Masilo Chauvin kills the way my grandfather did, by choking the last, stifled breath in a goat's throat with his knee, before cutting its neck with a knife, in the evening on a sultry day in May, before dinner, its bleats of I-can't-breathe! caught in the gullet of its throat. My grandfather's knee was deaf to pleas—there was food to put on the table.                                         ...