armor
for pidge
don't expose
the skin to heat
or cold, sun, stars
water or razors
let it just wrap
and find itself
layer meeting layer
like filo dough
each flake
gathering together
cold pisces
flesh simple as snowflakes
falling
cocoon the skin
til it finds its way
home
as the breath of julius caesar
creates empires
my breath
is a place
of song
dont write about stars
for nadia
in another world,
you and me
habibiti
crouching
on the edge of the sea
facing heart-shaped mountains
nations' borders slipping
away like trite
pop songs
we turn down the music,
off the headphones
see dawn pour out the valley
like black eyeliner scraped off the pinky
you say: yes
i say: na’am
and we walk
into the rising desert sun’
these days
piled barbed wire
divide us
i write another poem
you write grafitti on your arm
tell me
how mighty the pen is
when the hand is in chains
tell me
that freedom doesnt have a price
when i keep paying interest
for the killing machine
tell me: slow down
when i cant spring to the edge
between the right and left ventricle
someday our ashes will be silk sleeves
in the wind
for now
i keep writing poems
wrapped in a broken burning
molotov cocktail on a tire
swinging
from a star
this is not a love poem
for bfp
this is not a love poem
three days stooped in prison
my daughter bouncing
off the gated window
i pray for the bodies
unknown but fighting
for what i fight
this is why we plant
gardens in imploding anorexic cities
the black clouds cutting
our lungs in quarters
cancerous cells flitter between
the roots of trees
we refuse to give up
an imaginary skyline of leaves
the scent of basil
chamomile drifting over the walls
a freedom we can taste
for which we have died
and are resurrected
i cannot live
for you if i cannot die
for impossible you,
it is not a poem we need
but ourselves
like a prisoner craves a cigarette
this is not a love poem
but my life, a gift
wrapped
in newspaper and
hand-spun twine
Colored girls: a Hustler//Artist production (Volume 1)
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