Hand to Mouth

Busy hands split two-day-old chicken
                    in half. I pull spine and rib from meat.

I make this small body, this bird, something new that must
                    be fed, once again, to hungry mouths gnawing at my table —

our winged loves who chirp on phones and laugh
                    about whatever isn’t killing them. I boil water,

add the worn chicken and burn my fingers, a small sacrifice
                    of renewal. Bone catches in my daughter’s throat.

This food, I gift, a resurrected carcass, gritty
                    with prayer to postpone dirt on the dying.


“Last night I went for a / snack and noticed...”

Dear Patron

“It’s inappropriate to describe a Black man as colored in 2000-anything.”


“my body remembers its first silence”