Listen, the faithful told me the dark
is too much for me, or it’s the
father I danced against, the poverty
in his knuckles; the poverty I ran
my fingers over when I pooled in
his chest. Listen, I know the poor
have something to say about the
names I keep latched in my throat.
I know the consummation of
thievery and faith, the how of
hammering myself into his bones,
how I’ll pour myself into him, how
I toss blood into bloom, phantom
rain against sidewalk, wet the
world with his music. I think father
in prayer. Listen, he is interested in
this kind of invocation, and, like
me, is a believer want for the
semiundress of salvation: peel
yourself back and back until what’s
left is only a pair of hands. Listen.
Listen, curl your tongue around
this knifehandle, father. Taste the
salt in our name. Taste your sweat
under my tongue.