i.
they call it aphasia when
your words escape you, 
but through it all
your humor remains. 
you are not frail but
light as a feather and 
i will the wind
to let you stay. 

ii. 
though the slope of your sharp mouth
softens to the side
your smile remains steady. 
i bet it tastes of salt, 
or sugar, 
whichever you will have. 

iii. 
you are bone marrow and flesh, 
sinew and kidneys, 
the sum of the whole and
still all its parts. 
oh,
how you devastate me, 
how you make me totality. 

iv. 
if you stare at a spot long enough, 
it begins to move. i was staring at the ceiling
when they called to tell me you had died. 
suddenly stipple became constellations 
and i saw you dancing among the stars. 
i pray you've found peace. 

The Evening Primrose blooms only at night. 
She unfolds dusky yellow petals
in an embrace and, 
if you ask, 

She will tell you the moon
has been lonely; busy peeling
her craters open for a taste
of warmth from the sun. 
Her moans have become melancholic--

"How solitary my existence, 
with only the babbling brook 
​and hooting owl 
for company. Oh!
What a wretched existence is this!"

She turns her face from that
which adores her. She is
drowning in self-pity, 
teeter-tottering about her
axis as if she is the only
body in this universe. 

joy is exodus
a travel-weary journey
​these psalms unending

and what shall i do with my leftovers?
these crumbs attract naught be mice, roaches
and men—all the same, just as well. 
if given the chance i am sure
​i could grow to stomach you instead. 

                  ​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."