Poetry

Ixchel, I feel you crossing. Night womb. Tell me where the seeds go.

Alex, do you think God appreciates us
this time of year, going out

in knit maroons, black leather? I’m still no good
at smoking but I liked best the part of your party

Starlings know to veer. Anatomically attuned to each premonition of each starling. Sacred space.

Okay so when we were little playing in the woods
every time we heard a gunshot hollow and clear

my brother would clutch his chest and fall over
every single time and it worked every time

Lorca saw the Duende separate from the muse & the angel. Bodily. Inheritance. Tlazoltéotl, all passages through you.

Once I was lost on an island—Paros, paradise—
and I followed a stray dog to the center of town.

Dogs know the way. I don’t. I was with JT,
and we’d been drinking ouzo and laughing

No thoughts to say about the moon. The novelist jokes about not being a poet. I feel the lie.

Night, only barely. The shadow
of a bird has just tucked itself
into yonder branches. A black
feral cat skulks his way behind
the hydrangeas, which soon
will bloom.

Stars curl in the shape / of a scorpion’s tail and sparrows / float like gold flecks over the fields. If it's true / death is just a portal through which to pass letters.

& this is what we mean when we say body count. first, a swaddling. then, betwixt damp & ordinary gums hangs a mess hall. we offer a martyr to the blowtorch’s bright kelvin spit and call it supper. an autopsy worth its salt.