Practical Concern (For Thomas Duncan)

No one wants to die that way.
Caught between the notions of practical concern and real terror.

His body was an experiment, fertile.
Made ripe through melanin.
His body was carted over every middle passage,
over every needle thermometer- red.

The continent has lost a great many to this crisis.
And the few valid voices are given
to missionaries turned martyr.
The modern day saint is a pale faced news short.
An Oklahoma native,
cherry cheeked,
destined for darker lands.

Lucifer is epidemic.
Black cancer.
Flu scare.

And our bones have become less visible
Our bones have become less visible
Our bones have become less visible.


if holding you was somethin’ simple- it would be done.

we’d become another gathering of hands , hearts,a nd smiles who found some piece of a supposed forever.


if kissin’ wasn’t burning in fear. agony. an’ dem thoughts known better by us. . .

if kissin’ was bein’

if kissin’ was having more than three odd bruises, shame, and lavendar baths for cleansing.

if kissin’ made us brighter- like pheonix an’/ or deeper like root. . .

if kissin’ made us another pairing of feet, soulds, and wills bound together by destiny. . .


if sayin’ ah miss you was greater than de thousand hurt – then ah wouldn’t wake up cryin’.

ah’d have no need ta be any color other than dat radient yellow ah began wid.


you told me that your hips only knew sad songs

and swayed something slow

i reached anyways

held them to see for myself

and it felt nice

like my hands were made to sit there.

if sorrow comes

then it will and, pa, thats that.

for right now- lets smile on what flesh we got.

and moon together

exhale and love.