chasm: i fall knee-deep into the shallows.
             after you, the stars shut their eyes—

the dark earth like algae flourished inside me.
             my body: haystack in a farmhouse—

You’ve written your last words; you will not speak them
His spell would not let you, anyway
Not now; after years of wielding tiny pins—
too small for dancing angels—

Here is a bed of downy clouds on demand, yet free to us all,
next, a mouthful of sunlight to measure this blossom of late
November, cornflowers, a pretty pop of blue at the corner
of this end of Roundrock Road, the way to elicit care is color,

My life fits inside a sentence.
There aren’t any hours in any days
that can’t be represented with a noun and non-fantastic
verb, and maybe an adjective thrown in. Maybe icy
or starving or blue or dilated.
My nights are orange.

It’s alright, I wanted to tell her. This vicious nature
that wakes us up inside,
tells us we’re alive,
               forces us to not look away–

the women |

they raise their voices      the way
fire raises smoke       & the rain answers

with a flood

no
I will not
be your princess
no matter how you layer me
in silks and pearls
no matter the finery of your tailors
these gowns will never fit
this strange body that binds my soul

Somewhere in Nigeria: in Lokoja, Lagos,
Somewhere in Abia, Adamawa, Anambra,
some houses have become dams.
People have become Hagfish.
Roads have turned to rivers.

And if you remember just one thing,
Babe, remember this: there once were
Corals here. Living things in vibrant hues beneath our waters, not these
Dead husks fully slaughtered by the will of
Ego-driven billionaires chasing profit over people,

she makes a pond
in petals pluck’d (forget-me-)
planted in the upturn’d dirt
of graves.

her arms all dark,
disinterred bone dust (dancing girls)
her lungs weigh’d down
with growing things.