Stone Dove
the first time I read about the bird and the cage
it sung herself out of I waited to hear something
award winning – the audacity of youth can pick
apart bread to feed them at the lake and kill them
with a purse at the bus stop with the same hand.
I was never allowed to bring pets in the house, which
is what I called a jar of rollie pollies and grass, or a
water bottle with a gold fish or a lizard tossed
to the dark of a bin of plastic men.
the first time a man feeds me through his grape-
vine I choke on the seeds in his backyard. we didn’t
belong indoors and for a moment there was freedom
in that – the choice to be disgusted before the
self-induced plucking. I always wanted to smile
for those born outside, boys like me were raised
to strip and called something else entirely. by the
time I was kept I wanted to die with or without
him in his room. by the time I was freed every drink
tasted spiteful. every bath an exoskeleton frozen
by the sun, every reflection nested in the corners
of my ears chirping a negro’s anthem- national only
if you know them by name. I say I don’t play like that
and a feather spirals in my direction in search
of this life I was told to get a while back.
Condensation as Bullet
the house points towards the sky
I grew up in, while falling apart
is now to speak with your jaw bursting; how
expensive to live. a cloud becomes a dream.
Ode To Her PJs
you probably didn’t know her. heard her
name on the intercom every morning. looks
like she’ll beat your ass. is actually
a sweetheart. probably never spoke
until that one fight during lunch.
couldn’t spit game at her
for she was the mouth
straw and paper ball.
didn’t laugh at your jokes
cause wasn’t shit funny.
didn’t know she was bad
till the dance. was hilarious.
hopped fences. didn’t raise
her hand a lot but silenced
the whole class when the grades
were posted. posted by the staircase
with her girls. posted at the bus stop
alone. forgot her backpack. would lend
you a pencil. always carried a book.
pajama day was when she said it was.