~ For My Wife ~ I awoke to find myself dead Thursday morning, Kendra had warned me this would happen one day.
My first thoughts were that they should not lie to us with milk-glass fear, wallpaper our eyes black and deep;
While September men hurt in their hair-blood synapse differences, shuffle from one false concentric circle to another, like organ/saint/pocket-death/drowning/ like goats laughing as dogs.
If I were a woman, my belly-fuck eyes would not leave my hazel mind, would not eat machine-planted fear and spit out a war.
If I were a bird-faced woman stalk-clicking through warm sugarcane fields, no terror-gable government could slice my red autopsy with lullaby cloture death;
I could fly from perpetual fear, from bone-rattle shame of captivity. But I awoke to find myself dead Thursday morning, and Kendra had already buried away my fear.
