On those childhood Sunday mornings we used to watch the Orions take flight from the naval air base.
they pull out the woman / through her gut: think of the space now, / open studio with white walls, / dust like milkweed drifting
A diving bird, the pink duck returns for its things. What things? Whatever we took that made it dip its pink head under the waters, not to reappear. Its iridescent beetles, split-wings lifting in the air; its patch of jade grass; its water lilies; its tufted body, without the bullet’s path and tear.
you guys look like celebrities / the black jacket and the blond hair / and wow now in this light / he’s off with spit froth and eyes wide
"But it's not him. No outline can represent a black body. / White space cannot hold who Michael Brown was."
As in dead, a completed action, not / the slow lingering of life lengthening / towards death. I mean the death itself: / vibrant as a moth’s wing, excited /as forgetting.
But heed me you have not / and as its claws dig your flank, hot mouth hunting your hidden loins realize this: / X gon give it to ya. He’s gon give it to ya.
I consider, oddly, / how the Creature from the Black Lagoon / l was filmed in Florida, and is an iteration / of Grendel, and how intrepid saints have / a fondness for banishing serpents a’ la Beowulf.
Two summers ago I learned how to take a knife / to my arm and cut along a pig’s leg instead.
That uncertainty is also a gift / was your next gift, / the no-questions and questions twinning themselves / on your overflowing bookshelves, under your bed: / Science and art.