Silent coyote, and the sky snaps- everything changes,  
the air slithers like a prayer unspoken,  
and you call it devil’s camp of ensnarement,  
but what is a serpent but the muscle memory of gods we’ve forgotten?  
It’s just a fraction, a fissure,  
blowing up a single syllable, queering the sound,  
singling out the shimmer in us  
that refuses to be erased.
A child wonders how human it is  
to be kind when kindness tastes like venom,  
the kind that burns slow, laced with quiet revolutions.  
The opposite of human-kind is me-in-hell,  
but what is hell but the tongue of my sisters,  
licking salt from the wounds we’ve carried?  
Still, I rise-
the smoke from this scorched earth sings my name,  
still, I fight-  
the fists we’ve forgotten to unclench hum under the skin,  
still, I glow-
the light leaking from the cracks they tried to sew shut.
Justice  
Our history should define the stars we carve into the sky,  
not chain them in the iron of yesterday’s grief.  
Fear is a bruise we press into until it blooms,  
but even bruises fade,  
even men remember the softness of their beginnings.