Passerby II

there’s a curve in the road that still leads

to that church i never entered,

behind which and under same stars

i made a vow to leave this city.

there’s a row of chickens in the garden,

working on spreadsheets, how they’re gonna get out

of this city, gonna save some money up.

steal a bus and just drive.

i pass my high school often

and i pass places i used to work or dreamed of working

and places i hurt men or places where men used to hurt me.

this city has a haze about it—

may i be worthy of my meat,

that is to say: build myself from the ground up.

get a one bedroom apartment.

may i pass myself around the table,

that you have to use a fork to touch me.

that myself is like a house that i can’t enter anymore.

(inside it is somebody who will make me

curse the values this state responds to

for the homesickness and the bitterness at once.

how everyone in this city can’t stop thinking of how to leave.)

allergens at full force pollinating the blue bubble

pot holes and any street where you can buy longing.

may my supple tenderloin pledge allegiance,

may i build a home on the cutting board and rest.

that rôtisseur marching me to a foreign downtown

bistro where i dance on butter and ask for my home again.

i think when i do leave my poor will follow me

bedbugs moving into bigger homes

latched onto old photographs and furniture.

i know but i don’t dare throw it away

so even my sleep doesn’t belong to me,

even the nights alone under my roof aren’t mine.

interruptions by circumstance, poverty,

my back lit up like stars with bites.

i see the way out of the tunnel,

the light of it glistens on razor-lined floor.

i’m drawing cards trying to take my life back,

asking God, please, somebody but me.

Honorable Mention in the Second Annual Poetry Derby (2020) hosted by the Kentucky Derby Museum