​for Julia

she is too busy
flirting with the 
mundane to take

notice of you, 
and yet you
would have her

anyway. sweet
siren, do you
hear the honey

making a home
in your throat?
she is powerless

to resist. take
her in your arms
and teach her

of her womanhood. 
you are warm and
delicious and

whole; let her
taste what she
is made of. 

touch her gently
and remind her
that her world is 

not so small that
it cannot 
​be rocked. 

if your rage be fire, burn
all this shit to the ground. 
be an arsonist, sulfurous 
in your fury. when they tell
you that furor is futile, tell
them that yours was the
back all their motherfucking
glory was built on and 
you will be damned if all
​this tinder goes to waste. 

                  after Abel Meeropol

Will the flesh too burn black after
the skin has been removed?
Will plasma curdle and teeth flake
and lungs bubble and cells burst?
Everything has been baptized by inferno
yet the trees do not die
and their produce does not expire;
it's as if they've been planted
by streams of ichor. 
Their gardeners refuse to 
labor in vain. 

How is it that even after
the fruit has been plucked
(or knee revoved
or gun reholstered
or fists loosened)
that there are still those who
do not see the fire
despite all this
smoke?

he says
he likes taking care of me. 
i have
blood red mouth, 
sun stained teeth, 
i am always hungry for
more.

​"well then. eat."