Eight Poems

Why I Must Meditate 

I'm a slut for the same bitch voice
that knocks me down and uses
my head to mash fresh shit
and I smell traffic going eastbound
and a city with a rose swiff of itself—
its jeans, real low, hang off that stallion
round. She's alpha-on, hella sure I've
nothing to respond, but ask, to disarm
with a bit of civility, What you fittin to do? 
She's got spit for rain and her T-storm spanks
my profile, she booms, Who's your daddy? 
I think I got dew to bend grass, she's got
volume right-to-the-end. My swell
can't wave a country down. 

Boo Be Gone 

You grab what is alive in me, my breast becoming.
With all the weather in your want, you say, 
Today I'm a clear sky taking. Sunny and brazen, I let you. 

Because this missing is mine. This hollow plot
where purple alpines are seeded, from taproots
come these bolts of silky phacelia.
Your teeth a picket fence, that first bite. 
Honey, does this make you feel at home now? 
In beams that betray my caves, these nerves flail for connection. 
Honey, is there another number we can try? 
You return for seconds, for the roof you lift off my heart.
Over each beat you play god,
and through my rugged mammary you chew.
Black widows knit to the lapping of your tongue.
Their needles bring out my stars, and a gauzy tit
that threatens to drop and splash your hands to innocence. 

He Had the Nose of a Suspect

She maneuvers her body with absence, figures how
to preposition her baggage, and there are tight
corners to keep her crying only. She is a storm—
a brew in her chest gone hunting and it wants
to bring back the king and make the king a carpet.
Mondays and days regardless of their prefixes,
he's in a pine—they grew to mahogany,
made babies so beautiful they spoiled the light.
Drained to her soles, she bats in leagues where sea
life is Vegas, and for the nose of him, this reiterative
Jim Crow perches on his limbs and caws him rotten.
It's beyond foul—his last breath, she holds and looks begging.