Poetry

Early mystery,
out of what century

The lithograph hangs
immaculate, while the chest
beneath it gleams.

Quartal voicings, the alcohols. 
Swallows in a martini sky, jigsawed

the hive swells outside
as its residents itch to lick our inner walls 

for moisture and respite 

I am the man in the play-
ground, the cord of his earbuds

clenched in his teeth
(bit in a horse’s mouth)

if this city is still breaking me  
in with its weather and tethered eye

you be the arch in my neck 
the mane growing from it 

I moved into the haunted house
and gutted it to the bones. I wasn’t alone then,

and worked there as a team. 
We evicted squirrels from their vast nutshell nest,

filled dumpsters with fifty years of trash.

It’s true. We’re useless without our vaginas.
How will you rape us? How will we birth daughters
and sons? I understand. We should laugh.
It would be better if we did, Mr. Duterte. 
In India, our leaders say eating chow mein
excites the hormones...

          my heaven innard
turned to land

        apostled lips

to forgive me I masturbate 
then pray to God to forgive me 
I masturbate then hate myself 
after scrolling endlessly through 
porn I never find exactly what it is 
that I’m looking for because there is 
no category for my type of desire