busybodies made the sign
center mass
of imperceptible crosses over themselves
and swore we were jane and joe
for the umpteenth time..

God as their witness

the re-embodiment of ***** slaves
evident by the way we run.. instinctively
and sometimes in dissimilar directions
afraid to feel since their intercession

i'd straighten up against the wall
so you could measure
if the nervous system was my major
or some simpler thing to interpret
or i could make gravity forget
and you would see that i'm taller than my dreams

there's no make pretend at the roots of my poems

as honest as a kiss
as fair as the day you fell from a door in the sky
wearing a cloud for a parachute
singing something about giving good love

these applications were hardly suspect
before the mistrustful mouths of boys and girls
without enhanced halves of their own

for whatever reason
they need to see us segregated
and claim to have "the goods" on my ghost
but can uncover no more than what i've written

the world was unsightly before i met you

i was a thief and a liar
and peddled too many types of toxins
so even uglier
and was irresponsible in love and life
but this season'll be brighter than former editions
even without the ginger and gold
that made the trees attractive  
or the banks you made angels in

what more can they tell you

who i was is the bogeyman beneath the bed
that will steal your eyes if you let em
and because love battles..
i've since removed it's overweight tongue
buried it's spirit alive
and kept no past account so sacred
as to raise any uncertainties from the dead

what you've seen is all there is to me

but i'm almost sure beauty can't be taught
and you must care for some secret all your own
in the silver locket maybe
you wear around your wrist

is why they'll rumor about its contents as well
and unapologetically so
if history or the natural order of things
is any indication
until you swear you're no root woman
because someone had to have convinced the village
"it would take a drop of his blood and an unholy spell..."
for you to have me
but we're only imperfect apart
so our music makes more sense
mean in the throat of a hummingbird
or on old vinyl records

static is a metaphor for the arduous nights
and only makes us stronger
if it doesn't **** us in our sleep
we were predestined and earlier than this life

i committed your profile to memory
in a carolina rice field
beneath a haze as warm as hellfire
more than a decade
after the  emancipation of the grind
when you bet everything on your wedding ring
and was taught there ain't nothing complementary about (free)dom

they couldn't break us
they never will
this thing we've comprised is a gift
from the Gods who gave us mary and mahalia
and stars like vanilla chips
embedded in a dark chocolate sky
even before we could read
and i could write you poetry
about ordinary things as soft as your smile

there are no plantations in heaven
though death is some thing less than a formality
when true love is as relentless

for the umpteenth time
if we come back without our papers
i'll wait for you, barefoot in the churchyard

ready to run