"Notes of Something" & "What Joy Tastes Like Before Sunrise:" Two Poems

NOTES OF SOMETHING

Black people don’t go wine tasting.
The strangest fruits sediment at the bottom of the bottle and I'm losing track of time—
thinking about notes and oak and trees, 
thinking about curry-stained fingertips that smell of garlic and pepper.
Black people do go wine tasting, so put on Erykah Badu for the drive 
and I’ll ask them to play Public Enemy when we get there. 
Do you think they’ll have beef short ribs to pair with the wine? They’ll say
no ma’am, but we have brie and crackers.
The sun is setting in the North Fork and I’m getting sleepy.
These grapes hum a low, baritone tune that my ears aren’t trained to hear 
and the man in the field beats even lower on the vine, singing
sweet chariot, sweet chariot. 
This state is known for sweet grapes. 
Italy, Germany, Portugal, France and the Great American New York State!
Please tell me a story about sweet, soft things
because I’m burning up in this native sun and
it’s all 
so spiritual.


***


WHAT JOY TASTES LIKE BEFORE SUNRISE

the warm burn of distilled liquor,
a cold slice of pizza with hardened cheese and subway musk,
movie theater popcorn——a few days too old——and your eyes fixed to the screen,
oily beef and veggies swaddled in aluminum foil,
spilled coffee and Pine-Sol on hardwood floors in December,
    sweet coco bread on 125th Street,
    smeared tomato and scraps of toast left for the pigeons on damp concrete,
    stewed meat in a container I forgot I had in my purse,
    leftover chicken & waffles from yesterday and your honey sweet laugh,
        sorrel with extra ginger and soaked socks from the rain,
        a steaming cup of ramen and a wet floor sign,
        half a cheeseburger in your hand while I read a few lines from Langston Hughes,
        chilled coquito and a crisp breeze sneaking in the window, 
        bodega candies and the gerbera daisy stand that I love,
            a warm bowl of porridge waiting at home,
            and now, we rest