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.

Amor Fati

“I am trying to understand. I have washed / clean the canopy and set the knives in order.”

The Double Blind

“What is more intimate than a fist? / Than the champagne cork / pop / of cartilage and bone?”