It looks like I've done something terrible,
unforgivable, but all I've done is butchered
a pomegranate while listening to cartoons.
Who really gives a shit about fruit and its
triumphant preciousness, its leaking, its
lies about what I am and what I have done?
The older plant, on the dreary days, goes,
racism is an anthology, this water my fists,
no other, nothing more numerous or spread
from twig to twig. Child, you should take
yourself out for a glass of water, feel what
it's like to go where each cluster of bursting
fruit is nothing but hearing too much about
what I have done. Like, I'm ringing the neck
of another little, blind fish. He shudders
so much harder than what's going on now.
And when I rehearse, maybe in the house,
maybe with a package under my arm, but
with my forehead I sigh, and with my skies
I edge towards a moment that keeps all
I notice in front of me, the protest I'm afraid
of will be of a time when choice was the same
as enough, various the occasion to forgive me.