i will miss
the woman-lined walls
of tony’s pizza

jewel-tone mouths
ordering zeppoles extra
sweet, will miss the urge

to fry bacon in my vegan
lover’s favorite pan
miss the morning after

picking over produce paul’s
grizzly limbs
of ginger

weary avocados
admiring the way a banana
arcs into the scarlet cave

of a stranger’s mouth
6 am conjuring memories
of 1988, shoeless

mother-shaped staggering
through the door after basement
drug busts, i

a fuzzy headed waif waiting
up the night mama bled
like a goth miracle

from the gums & v
of her arm, i will miss
the burning cathedral

of arms
sweltering epidermis
that scorched

its praying patrons
nana cupping the glittering
ash of what was left

of her only daughter
nana blowing my scarred

as if it were soup
i will miss nana, the cool
kiss of aloe, a god

for what it cures
& the knocked-up saint
i was at 19

hopping trains on an island
small as a condom

apologies to the stowaway
who stormed the blue
silk of my womb

who i gave away
like a carnival prize
sent my heart tumbling

deep into my body’s
& the butch

whose arthritic
day laborer hands
fished it out of grief’s

clogged gutters
a bulldagger who didn’t
one-night-stand well

made me smile brilliant
against the chaos

of the city
will miss the quivering
steeple of legs that carry

me against traffic of engines
snarling gray & muddy
green on the bowery

where i’ve lost nearly all
my lives to yellow cabs
how their mohawk’d ads

become a blur
when i stick out my trigger
finger, its blacked skin shoots

fear into an apple
thick with bulging pockets
of thieves bulging eyes

at anything that shimmers
in the dark
the whole foolish fucking world

of poetry
i will miss
the rock star wag

of black tongues
re-training english
a dog too dumb

to roll over
so we marimba its spine
for death fugues

for the lady
who grabbed my hand
at a protest

outrunning cops
bold blue barricades
drawn around the manic & rising

smoke of insurrection
rubber bullets turning rebels
to battleships sunk

into cracked tar streets
will miss the intuitive reach
of hands in bars

behind crushed velvet

the chanteuse
sequoia tall, goddess braids
neon acrylics unclasping

my lucky bra
her name
spanish for faith

or hope
or wish
in a space lit

with shadow
the heady scent
of sex

heathen fuck
i will miss
your love of black

camels & tonic gin
your disdain

for monogamy
for permanence
of any kind

& when the end
is near, i hope
to be with you

hope to debunk
the myth
of sweet dirt

to be
the only dyke
no spell

can zombie
no root
can raise