I spotted her pupils dilate as she held the hardcover at the bookshop
The hint I used for our anniversary gift
I’ll feed her mind and give her a mental lift
Unique, portable magic, my thumb flipped and fingered
Separated the pages, whispered the last line and she quivered
“Oh what a book, what an ending!” The glee on her face as I read….
Look at her, a Nubian queen
Features carefully chiselled
My body yearns for her but it’s her mind that excites me
A replica of perfection as she twisted herself in knowledge
To each their kin
My heart races every time she turns the page.
The way she bites her lower lip …engaged
Abiding in a knowledgeable humble abode
Nothing sexier than a woman who feeds her soul
“A feast of kings and queens”, she says
And she digs into the buffet of literature set before her,
I stare in awe, almost choking on the many words that want to come out of my mouth
Numerous hymns of thanksgiving to the Heavens for her,
Her shapely figure in full view, but I’m focused on the intent on her face,
Through her spectacles, I can see that she has left this place,
As the pages she’s buried her in take her on a path of enlightenment
She doesn’t see that I’m following closely behind,
How I love to watch her, watch her feed her mind.
She laughed out loud…eyes dancing, humour within them
Oops! she had done it again…in public this time.
Many a time, she got so enthralled in these deliciously irresistible tales
Amusement, despair, joy, sorrow, revelation, elation
All these feelings and more
Delightfully wrapped in numerous bound pages
Honestly, she never could resist, feeding her mind.
Son of Ntu, Lord Black said
We can only momentarily shine on the outside cause it depreciates
But real beauty is skin deep, so feed her mind son,
Give her the honey but don’t hide the bee that stings
Knowledge accumulated is never lost
Only actuated in witty conversations and smart thought lines
Once in a while, for flowers, buy her books on horticulture
Feed her mind and propagate a reading culture..
Her body is a temple full of scriptures on papyrus dotted with ink,
Holding open a text that may become the word when she interprets the words,
The vowels bouncing off the pages into her mind’s eye
Feeding her soul with constant consonants from Petrachan sonnets,
Making her mental a labyrinth of knowledge which may make her appear condescending,
But like every priestess she knows the value of the word
So with her wet index finger, she flips the pages and meditates…