I find it unnatural, cruel even,
that the tooth must break
the gum to crown,
as if for the sake of glory
something must bleed,
must break.
Little white soldier
in that troop of the mouth;
enameled ruin
of the little red plain,
you appear with your trademark
ache from that horizon of the body
where the rot of the empire throbs
in collision with light.
Your bayonet breaks
through defenseless flesh;
your empire crests
like a wave.
And in that critical edge, slowly,
you grow
into your "wisdom".
The tongue, like a pope, must continue
its work of diplomacy
oscillating between teeth and gum
though the damage is as linear as a blade
of grass that breaks the earth for light.
The ruin of the soil is collateral
in the plants’ policy of living.
In every place I have found beauty,
I have found, also,
something in search of glory,
shedding its compassion like a coat—
like Congo, its cobalt mines tainted
with the empire's capital curse;
like the Middle Eastern lands
with their oil wells raped into blood.
I am looking away from nature,
its sacrilege of blood on ice,
from that essence of man
which concerns itself with conquest,
towards heaven where,
at least, my pain is mine.
To inherit heaven, I killed no man,
I cheated no brother of mine;
I forfeited, instead, my living
for a life of ink and paper;
lived as a poem in defiance
of ruin. In the time of genocide,
I existed as a petition for peace.

As a child, small and sick
and sad and quiet, my mother
doted over me in fear—
Achilles dipped into nothing
but the crook of his mother's arms;
child of promise, held to breast
even as my father, one midnight,
stormed out of the house in anger
at my mother who wouldn't
put me down to bed, the night bleeding
long into a sorry song of vengeance.
God knew already
that I wouldn't die as a child.
In my little loaded heart, I did too.
But who wouldn't want
a story like mine? To be
the bone of contention lodged
in the fleshy meat of marriage.
I mean, don't you dream
of something greater than love—
an apothecary potent in its delight;
walking into a room and seeing
someone storm out, leaf-eyed
and green with envy? O body,
battered and dying, I say nothing
about that animal called regret.
But it's been years
since the child in you was held.
Faithful in your cruel work, you tally
the absence like clockwork.
How could I not look at you,
how my father, that night, must have,
before the storm that gathered
and broke, to see all the love
that should have been mine
held hostage in a sickle cell?
The truth is not far from the wound.
The only times I have been poured
a decent measure of love
has been with my body folded over
in crisis.

will steal the sun's glow and shine—
gold on melanin like a saint's halo.
But tonight, let's pretend neither
of us is here. It's a moonless night;
a blatant eclipse, though the world
is oblivious as always. Like us,
two rebel-lovers are hiding
in the earth’s shadow like moles.
There is a story about lovers and
tunnels. I forget now how it goes.
All I know are stories of loss.
Like now, whispering: Do not stray
in this dark, Light. Still-warm lamp,
hold me close to you in wanting.
The truth is: I want your bright
face close to mine as a reminder
that soon, two callused hands will bend,
and fill me up with goodness, and
I, too, will glow so brightly in the dark.
Someday, moon, I too will demand
what you demand of the tides;
of the poets. A man will say beautiful,
and then I will come into the light.