solitaire hours
      spent
preparing the
         face
they will meet

pour tea
       take cake
       and make
advice

a little butter
    maybe a
     little
      ice

at half past
             three
quote Shakespeare

and
invoke
the automatic
          hand
of
chic

i went back through
my old pieces

and it all became so
bleached,

white sugar, white rice,
skim milk, I used to be
so rich, cream, honey
oak sap,

I wrote and it felt
natural, saw in
words and coffee
hues, tastes and
teaspoons clinking
bowls rolling, counters
covered in  flour
batter running into the
sink and onto my
feet, i could bake
bread on my palms
leavened and without
yeast

i wrote like everything
was alive because it was
because it is


because I am.

The poet is a sangoma
throwing bare-bones words that
uncover occult
universes where they
land.

applying his
              lingual buds
   to the smooth
lush of her
thighs she rippled
         as a lava lake,
          no stone skipped            
                          just
melting milk, lapped up
in hungry pulses
cream of silk
   pounding thunder
        in consonants of
             taut skin drum
                nuances in vowels
         uttered in
animal dissonance
his bristled breath
all over her
              fingers
salivary intentions
over rim of lip
feeding the emptiness,
a holy vessel
more ancient than
        before time
              now ready
              to be filled by the
           essence of feminine
pineapple juice drizzling
firebud glistening
in fuchsia exposure
open gateway
      to divine outpour
a sacrificial altar
of unmasked psyche
completely stripped of
                     any pellicle
his palms firmly
planted in hot muscle
thumbs parting
            glory's hole
deer at the saltlick
lost in the velvet
just pour it in
thick molasses
not stifling,
only honeyed bark
multi-hued like
      eucalyptus deglupta
in buttery tips
dripping love,
all over her lips
and just like that, in
slick-painted dabs
of their own
acrylic-drip art
just like that
in the wild
            and thick
explodes the ache
of her
ripped
         apart
   heart

When I was young, I used to
Watch behind the curtains
As men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men.
Young men sharp as mustard.
See them. Men are always
Going somewhere.
They knew I was there. Fifteen
Years old and starving for them.
Under my window, they would pause,
Their shoulders high like the
******* of a young girl,
Jacket tails slapping over
Those behinds,
Men.

One day they hold you in the
Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you
Were the last raw egg in the world. Then
They tighten up. Just a little. The
First squeeze is nice. A quick hug.
Soft into your defenselessness. A little
More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a
Smile that slides around the fear. When the
Air disappears,
Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,
Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered.
It is your juice
That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.
When the earth rights itself again,
And taste tries to return to the tongue,
Your body has slammed shut. Forever.
No keys exist.

Then the window draws full upon
Your mind. There, just beyond
The sway of curtains, men walk.
Knowing something.
Going someplace.
But this time, I will simply
Stand and watch.

Maybe.

To Love You Is To Love Malnourished.

You used to serve I Love Yous with my Morning Coffee.
Kisses With My Creamer.
Sing “You Are My Sunshine” With My Sugar.
Stir It up in a blender.

To Love You Is To Love Malnourished.

You Used to ask Questions About My Day.
Serve Feedback With My Steak.
Sing To The Records That I’d Play.
I Think About You Every Day.

To Love You Is To Love Malnourished

Now Days and Nights are all too Similar.
Missing You Has Become All Too Familiar.
I Miss You In The Summer, The Fall, And The Winter.
I Look into the Mirror.
At My Figure Without Filter.
I Don’t Know My Mom, My Dad, Or My Sister.
Tears Flow Like a River.

To Love You Is To Love Malnourished

To Wake up at Midnight.
Write a Poem about the Moonlight.
Write our Names out and then Rewrite
You’re My Busted Up Brake Light
Unable to Fly Box Kite
Poems That I Recite
Late To School Stop Lights
Oklahoma Frostbite

To Love You Is To Love Malnourished
Look at Every Picture.
Listen to The Scriptures.
Wish That I Could Be With Her.
Wish Our Love Was Thicker, and Richer, and Didn’t Go Quicker.

To Love You Is To Love Malnourished

When The One That You Love You Have To Unsee.
They What You Love You Have To Set Free.
Choice A was to Love, She Choose Choice B.
Call Me Rude, Hateful, and OutRight Obscene.
But To love You Like I Do Is Painful and Weak.

To Love You Is To Love Malnourished.

Step one starts with forgetting/

you begin by tearing
yourself from the skin they took home in,
disconnecting your arms from their seams,
eating their hearts
and hoping that they forget you,
too

Step two means burning all
ties,
dissolving each memory like the pills
your mother took at breakfast,
how could you have let this happen?

so you pull
their
veins from yours and
untangle what they gave you,
choke down a penny
and hope
that they don't think of
you

Step three is the
detox,
cut yourself open and scrub yourself
shiny:::
unchain your wrists from that dinner table
and hope that his nightlight doesn't bleed
through
that
doorway,

orange was never a pretty color
anyway

Step four is the hardest,
.
when you take a knife to your palm,
and make slits down to your wrist,

when you ignore the beck and call
of memories you forgot you had,
people you realize never cared,
so you take
a drink for those you know you've
long forgotten,

and come clean
to three different people, all the
same and hope the next girl
doesn't know step one....

it never seemed to hurt when you
played it all out in your head.