November 6, 2019Aubade in the Boneyard
my father died bending like a dog
under the November cloud
unlike the stories we were told
about grief as a revolution inside
a tender throat i grew up to learn
that even God has a thousand titles
to his name & we only use the one
synonymous with grief when our
mouths are full of stories of guillotine
i have stories about ghost saved up
in my diary this time no deception
my mother never wanted me to know
i was born inside an eagle’s claws
i am saying every letter of my name
has a sharp edge & blood gushes from
everything i touch
i open my window into a field of dust
the sun chokes on my shoulder blade
i invade the boneyard with holy books
& line the belly button of my father’s grave
with broken branches of cedars
he smells like a lit cigarette
there is always violence inside a crow’s beak
& for a body like this to inherit scars
that never heal the sky falls back into
my mouth anchored by the stories that beguile me
from #65 - Fall 2019