A tattoo of birds
in the cage
of my throat.
I can’t breathe.
The world
is an eye
open to the
sun.
How many poems
do you have
by dreaming
of fire? of water
too late, too little
of breath
on the feathers
a naked cat
is sculpted into a
sphinx.
Tell me: the sculptor
was using his
fingers as
a ruler: his palm
a throne. I hold
all of life in
my throat. I hold
the 7th heaven
on my devil’s whisper. A genie says:
what a genie says:
I’m not available right now
get in the car.
The lamp holds
nothing to the candle
wish of tongue, holds
a shadow in the corner
of my eye: blink
thrice if a baton chops
because someone says, gravity. I’ve heard
a lot of songs about misery, but
never felt a bullet
slash through my body’s
grass limbs. Had I
to describe this membrane
what its body looked
like in breath
in its lover’s casket: I say,
brave, one syllable drops
at the speed of exhale: one
Marlboro tastes like
a carcass: if you ask
me about Africa I’ll
point my thumb down
the chamber, stick my
head in the camera
lens, fall into
black, black, black
everything—birds
included.