I build a revolution
in my bedroom
every time I masturbate.
My own body conspires
to assassinate both
my rebel hands.
No matter
what I do, my history
still tells itself wrong.
My lips shape both
casualties and
freedom songs, but
I still have sex like
the dogs won’t bite if you
have your church shoes on,
like black Grandmas didn’t
keep all their shotguns
up underneath a mattress.
