After the Plague (2)
what comes next? Volcanos? Fires?
Cicadas aren’t locusts, though
their apocalyptic screams
sound not lust but another
of the seven deadlies. Wrath
rains down in decibels. I
project my fear on this world.
what comes next? Volcanos? Fires?
Cicadas aren’t locusts, though
their apocalyptic screams
sound not lust but another
of the seven deadlies. Wrath
rains down in decibels. I
project my fear on this world.
The thunder rolls hard outside
my window, opened, wide to
the wind. Rain dashes the sill,
the blinds clack and I’d rather
mop later than still the flood–
the outside in, the inside
inhaling the musk of spring.
talking ducks
a cat’s ass
no ability to ask
where’s mama?
our white hands are white
our first faces are black:
the nursing maid
aunt jemima and
all those jeffersons
we see on tv.
our playground rants:
– great-great granddaddy
owned
your great-great granddaddy
– why do you get so mad
it’s only history
senior trip’s
tennessee parthenon
wettest dream of wet dreams
the plantation nation
where we study
woodrow, midwife
at “the birth of a nation”
while the real wilson,
august, says: yeah,
faulkner and o’connor
write about your creeks
and hollers and licks
those tick-infested woods
where the rapes took place
but black and white
seed is seed
and the mix is in the bag
is white poetry possible
after sally hemings, carrie butler,
and henrietta lacks?
we refuse to pay our dues
to the black man’s wages
refuse to show our rage.
our poetry…
there’s no juice in it
no liquor of life
sullen and sodden it slinks off
with talking ducks,
with a cat’s ass
you left a trail of scorpion stings leading to cancer mars if there’s water on mars i’ll sit in the river until it runs dry
you left an ant trail down my neck there’s a mosquito bite on my forehead maybe my blood is too sweet to not suck dry
you called me a soulmate do you still think that’s true it scares me to be vulnerable i think so too
i’m sorry i let my night terrors sleep into your brain i think i only live there now
sometimes i want to relive those months the feelings never left we’ve just been soaking in the bath for a very long time
this poem drafted, in ink,
on the same page where I
subtracted hospital costs
from our flex fund —
a “benefit” they call it
where we get to use our
own money
for our own care, and yes
we don’t pay taxes on it
but it still feels
taxing
as I add it up, and
the tally nears zero
with half a year to go
Is it normal for eyes to ache
the second you wake?
Is it normal to stare at ceilings
bereft of any feeling?
Is it normal to forcedly get up,
rinse hands, mouth, face,
splash some draught in a teacup,
question every kitchen appliance’s place?
Is it normal to even ask all this,
be swathed in an ever-expanding abyss,
or is this simply a girl being remiss?
Hovering above your body
I tell them
Pools darken with startles of crabs
live on the California shore-
small warnings of the challenges
awaiting this lifetime.
Busy little humming bird
buzzing like a bee
Creep up to my window
To take a look at me
Stare into my soul
While your wings beat with my heart
Once you drink the nectar
I know our time will part
Busy little humming bird
When does your world still?
I want to know where do you go
To charge up all that will?
It wouldn’t be for beauty rest
Your feathers are on fleek
And if you were my lover girl
I’d kiss your fucking beak
