AFTER FIRING THE SHOT
for Paul Verlaine
The dirt beneath the stones is filthy & frantic.
The branch cast on the ground sweats slowly in the grass.
Static radiates from windows with a harsh hum
as cats howl—celebrating my success.
O Lucifer—life here is so winding & cruel.
These sounds in my ears no longer come from my lips.
But I know what I’ve done, with my skin dead & flaking.
I know what I’ve done—with my life so very young.
SILUETA
for Ana Mendieta
I feel my body, displaced from every bone,
carved into brick. I inhale carnation pigments
as they smear a halo around the figment
of my presence—burning me further into stone.
The brackish trace of exile starts to tinge
the roof of my mouth—its bitter dust incites
& warps the shape of my hips I’ve set alight
as the embers eat towards my fingers’ fringes.
Within these displaced swamps, my silhouette glows
over thickets of quince—& my flames caress
the fruits’ pulp to absorb melting Formica fumes.
My outline smolders above grass—& so slowly,
I watch my arms dance from my dripping chest
as it falls—searing its way back to a foreign womb.
HUNGER
“When I write of hunger, I am really writing of love, and the hunger for it ” ~ MFK Fisher
Undefined hands—some calloused, others virginal—
slink across my calves. Each set of lips entombs
the contours of my knees—searching for spices
that fester in my cells, waiting to be consumed.
As clammy palms press deep into my calves, I watch
the veins released from each uncoiled ligament—
the skin flakes like white paint from a rusting pipe
& my thigh fades to your thigh—dead, impotent
