on the gallows pole
at the turn of
the womanhood
of resistance  
I am naked
with my sins
but not
to the touch
white men
will be devoured
outwitted
unflavored
by my kind

because of the government
we know evil
because of the government
my people
rise from the ashes
of our pain
our grief
out of sleep
and into a riotous
rebellion
of soft skin
and hard fingernails
of women
who were never held back
but silenced
of women who were never held up
but let down
we will be the ones
to remind The Man
that we have been here
all along—
as prophets
as keepers
as an articulation
of the people
we refuse
to
keep quiet.

Underneath the palms
of eternity
somewhere in the desert
of my convictions
my heart is aching
for you
but my slate isn’t clean
without the southern
whippoorwill
of my youth
still embedded into
these streets
and spines
of my childhood.

Yet
I am only innocent
at the hands of you
reckoning time
backwards
and forwards
cutting these chains loose,
you say:
cherish this day
you aren’t living without
my love pressed up against
your mouth
that of your running kind
I am sure
that I have committed no crime:
I don’t cage you
I don’t command stillness
I only know
which way to run
with you.

See
the summer ending
at the end of our palms
so let’s wait til tomorrow
to set all of our plans
into motion
see
the green
of the locomotives
against the track
of my small town
and they’ll speed past
when I admit
that I’ve always
had a penchant
for everything you hate
for anything as ancient
as the fears that grow
in your garden
the ones that you water
with my resolve
it’s your eyes
that wrinkle
the backs of my hands
not the time
I spent mending
the fences between us
even months after
you’re not a stranger
the lower east side
echoes with our laughter
now I have someone else
who holds me together
but no amount of wrinkles
on my skin
can separate me
from the sharp inhalation
that your presence brings
but I hesitate
when I see you wringing
your hands
on the street corner
with your friends
my darling
my baby
the lights on my nightstand
keep your ghost lit up
reminding me
of the park
at night
when you found my heart
before the veil
of dark
found it’s way
to every highway
and slow breeze
in the mountains past
the place you grew up
long before the gin
found it’s way into your cup
and now
after you
I’m shedding skin
until I’m see-through
enough for my veins
to call out your name
so you’ll know the honesty
behind the words:
“I’ll see you again.”

Lately
I’ve been closing my eyes
reimagining the hieroglyphs
of springtime
at your door
and the way the light
touched your form
but now it’s just me
and the moon
redesigning the colors
in your room
sketching rivers and lakes
into the tombs
of our love.

Tell me what you’re thinking
though I know
that it isn’t of me
but she
is still in every
night vision
every daydream
half asleep
half turned to the universe
of her design
elements of refracting memories
words
that have so long since
been my curse.

Time
has made a beggar of me
when October has
dug her nails into
the April on my mind
mouth full of planet
but chest full of wind—
she is closed to me again
her form is a mountain
when mine is just a grin
just a shadowy friend
of her own
on the ground
in the field
where our love story
would end.

When I close
my eyes
I see the lights of Colorado Springs
and all of the hiding places
of my ghosts
in the desert.
In Omaha
along the highways of flat plains
I laid out my immeasurable gratitude
unseen to others
and quiet only to myself.
Sitting amongst the humming
insects
and faded lawn sculptures
of my hometown
I remember
the house by the roller mill
and the porch full of
conversation and burnt cigarettes.
Along the Pueblo towns
of New Mexico
I see monuments and scriptures
of a future
carved against the spines
of old love
and new testaments of freedom.
When I finally open my eyes
I am anywhere
but here.

A generation
of domesticated feminists
and jaded
data analysts
couldn’t comprehend
the way your kind
hardens
and bends to behaviors
of sinister
seasoned flavor
where is your accountability
to a higher power?
or are men made of
different material?
a high grade steel
prone to cutting
into the softness
of women
I wonder when
we will turn
our fates
into brick and mortar.

4 days in the suburbs
everything I utter
has the same cough
every itch
remains hidden
there is this thought
stuck in a glass jar.
these days
an image of her eyes
and 25 dollars
can make me run faster
than any automobile
but no one here runs anywhere.
what is that song
I used to listen to —
the one about stillness?
It exists here
on a slow suburban morning.