When I Speak Of Hunger

I speak of ghosts. I speak of death easier
said than seen. A beehive — except all the bees
are bullets; my father is a flower. I swear
on a stack of bodies, stuffed together
in a funeral limo, that I am not alone in this.


I fell down in a heap / of my murdered youth and yelped


Another brown body
hits the dust, / and our cries