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
cheek
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
lushalicious
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
underworld
& 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
watts
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
backrooms
behind crushed velvet
curtains
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
women
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
