come to my wake

dressed sharp as a lemon rind

the trimmings of a hollow season’s harvest

scattered on the floorboards and

crackling like the heartbeat

you’re wailing to hear,

cauterizing your tear ducts and setting

whatever dance-crazed soul upon you

that will bend your toes in the way of

the light. praise my coffin. praise your

gilded sorrow. praise the burn i swallowed

and offered you, generous, like the good

blood brother and spook i am. those who

merely pretended to know me will say

do not weep.(More …)

the moon

is a black girl with an arm

that knows the twist and give

of an indian burn from boys

she doesn’t know.

of course,

she is so sick with love

for the evading sun, she

has made an athleticism out

of her endurance.(More …)

and that’s true, kind of.

but never more than

the sound of my own voice.

never more than giving

all the things i love

about myself to a

more deserving husk.

once

i shouted down

an entire battalion of

carnivorous orchids.(More …)