I felt this poem's kick
before I knew its sex.
It's not a boy.
It's curious, it crawls on hands
And walks on toes.
It burrows in the purple hammock
strung under my coworker's eye.
This poem wakes up white and pissy,
freckled, just like subway snow.
Born from piss, this poem is bad water.
This poem must be meek as worms:
clean via body pores.
Otherwise, what's there to inherit?
It’s curious, so
this poem tries eating shit.
This poem's feminine is soft kiss, ashes,
and we all fall down.
Instead, the sun falls down again. Anger
sunsetting. This poem stretched out on the rug.
Clarity settles with a thud,
like the last page of a book-
oh, I wish.
I want to believe there's an end.
In order to get there, I must
forget about endings.
cdzhouse 