Ode to XXIV
I made a mess of you—
spilled myself over every day
like an uncertain sky.
Fell fickle as the sunset.
Lost so much of myself
I called you a year of rain.
Called you sacrament
or a rainbow’s promise. In
& out of love & you: desire
run astray ascending a new peak
of rage. Caught you running over
my skin some dawns. Striking
at monuments of white men
with a biblical fervor.
We watched a black man fail
so spectacularly a mass of ash
rose up into a pillar of salt
at his leaving. Now we march
so often it is perpetually spring.
Almost warm enough for the bare-
ness of a body to declare itself
boldly. We step out of line with
every sharp turn of Movement
without finesse. Can’t stand
a chant without hips, a chant
without an ounce of sweat
to show for itself. Squicking signs
say “We are all immigrants”
& we laugh so hard. Shake loose
a spirit or two. They say
We want more than a witness.
The drum. Ring shout. Trans at—
I pick up a pen & tap out
a trail of bones. My blood
rhythm raises to a roof’s height.
My nerves run
at a premonition’s pace. I am
troubled. Always. A soon-to-be
clap of thunder. Can’t wait ‘til
the heat comes. I’m over skies
of small showers easily swallowed.
I aspire to storms. Await the sovereign-
ty of fire. Song of Baldwin
come home to roost.
11:59 on the last day
of my twenty-fourth year.
Pen making me an indelible mess.
Pen making me a defiant wound.