Poetry

after Claude McKay & what’s the world to carve into your tombstonethen? Here lies a man, twenty-seven years old. He diedbut he ain’t no punk. He was one knife slicing, shit-talkin’ wick. The most lit sonofabitch who’s ever lived.He slept with Smith & Wessons under silk pillowcases.Here lies a body creased with whitewall tires.Here lies…

with lines from D. A. Powell We unyoke owl pellets from marrowin desert meadow. His mouth pigeon eye, a torch, womb turned flower. He, still a boy,dug from cactus skull. Undress into bark beetles. He unlearns how to hold a fistwith my hand. Bursts into dandelion seeds. We are all beautiful at least once.Mud water…

I. It’s entirely up to me to remember                                   what you said. But all I recall is water,               flour,          strained yolk adding          up to something beaten and inedible. I placed               my ear to your stomach,          whereexcess warmth gathers in the name                                                                       of the body’s clandestineritual of diminishment. I’d crouch at your feetin the shower, allowing                           what pale lather ran               in runnels from your hair,…

I got a carouselof carved horses:pastel pinks, blues, greenssafely the most beautiful toyour garden apartment had ever seen And Grandma Shine gave my brothera flashlight that resembleda roll of Lifesavers And he was quiet a momentbefore he began to whisperabout the beauty of hisLifesavers flashlight, all brightred yellow green with possibility of lightand hope of…

my friend tells me she’s been runningin the cemetery in the afternoonshe calls it just-a-garden-reallyfirst i am afraid & then i am afraideverything is cemetery & gardenmy late uncle’s flower shopmy daughter learning to fold a paper into a boatsea salt marriage dawn old french musicthis vertical line digging deeperinto my forehead every morningthat bicycle…

It could be a decade later, years of livingan accustomed, an unvigilant life. I trustmy surroundings again, like a personinstead of a witness. I could be shoppingat the grocery, choosing one of the fanciercheeses, when I bump carts with my ex,my whiteness. Oh my god, this is where you’ve gotten to, my whiteness exclaims loudas…

an apostrophe for Isamu Noguchi Is stone the opposite of dust? And if so, aren’t we stone before dust? And before that,          some kind of betwixt? The mush insidea translucent chrysalis turning cellophane-clear when, all of a sudden, you can see the          Monarchthrobbing and scratching its way into air— unlike a centipede that lays eggs, even curls…

My name is all this air and shaped soundin my mouth like an invisible mealand, most days, I tell no one howto get back home. Which way in the nightto go that will avoid the silent riverand bad neighborhoods and the trackswhich bend and groanbeneath the tiresome weight of trains.I show nobody my hands,and touch…

“From the Unsent Midnight Letters: Remission” —for L dearly beloved— you need rest but can’t seem to escapeanother quiet or not-so-quiet litany of reasons to spit the bulletof sleep          what if I perish? your worry bells over & over—: although it rings outwork? family? desire?          with time on my breath I offer the one lullaby I believebelongs…