The Diaspora of Your Voice

There is something at the bottom of your chest
at the back of your throat in that layer

that reflects a dull silver song. It’s not
in the dictionary, this dialect you’re

constructing, picking pieces of glass and
string along the gutters of history,

in the grout that viciously divides the you
in the documentaries, from the you

in the graves, from the you that grows
from the center of your back.

The diaspora of your voice is hatched from
the space you refuse to continue drowning in,

a heated locomotion to propel across seas
and settle into the beds and lyrics

of lands with short trees and no time.
People didn’t come to see your art

then, but they find the color of your echo,
the shining off your cheeks, something full.

They want your score. You tell them
they are already winning.


The Revolution of a Hand at Your Back

The revolution of a hand at your back
is a mirror, a slowly repairing sky

dry burlap against your brain, the numina
you can see sidling up the false space

Energy becomes a reverse drain
though nothing alights from

your thin collarbones, ears
still hoarding reedy hushes.

The resurrection of filling the hole in
your eyes with a hope to suckle on,

tells the birds you’ll see them down
the island, wears red and black to

echo off your white spirit.
This is all so foreign and no one

will hear your prayers;
but there is a coup to commit to.

Fingers imprint their mountains onto secret
skins and push you into folks that pulsate

into paper when you breathe on them.
Right and wrong are the names of alcohol,

but you can’t forget what was whispered
to you against your heart sounds:

Little steps, little steps
until the cliff gives rise to scented air.