maybe it was the crik crak
of too many tumbling talismans.

too busy dancing in the midst of
ra-ra drum circles and spiked berry-berry sherbet,

maybe it was majik.

two-step toned bass turned into eshu.

keep weaving,

remind me of those nonstop foot to
pavement poundings,

take back morning bout of nostalgia,
stale coffee, awkward sex,

snort these circles of crak,

just enough to reach
between here and back.

stop pulsating,

remember there was a time
we roamed together,

crik crak  to that.

This poem was previously published in <em>Reveries of Longing,</em> Melissa Kguwa's first collection of poetry.