Sacrament

How everyone
Every once in a while
Must sit in a room
At a subway station in a shop
Or next to a homeless man on a corner

(The one that yells at you as you pass by SO ANGRY that
Everyone is too scared to drop into​ his cup
For fear of reckoning for fear
Of him calling you WHITE GIRL calling you WARM IN THAT JACKET
Because HE’S NOT WORTH TALKING TO
I KNOW I DON’T DESERVE THOUGHTS he said yesterday)

How sometimes you have to just stand beside a man like that and
Think of stars
And dusty planets

How huge we are for being so rare
So absolutely incredible
This whole thing
Isn’t there a god? Shouldn’t there be?

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How absolutely fraught

How absolutely fraught everything is.
Nothing
I mean— I couldn’t make a strong case for life if you asked me to.
And poetry- fuck. How dare we write it. The little thing.
What bubbling words do we think carry
Why tape wings to flecks why spin a seed to see if it flies? It
mostly doesn’t fly. I’m throwing balls of mud over hedges. This isn’t worth anyone’s time
But what is
if not some stars
because they’re out tonight in Boston and they aren’t always.
and there’s something about my tiredness blurs the light through my eyelashes
and I’m noticing the thickness of the air.
I remember watching a video of Maya Angelou. She cried.
I cried with her. It’s all nothing.
The world doesn’t need us but we need us, and damn a sky’s better
with a few quiet stars.

November Happened Again

I.

The air is dark, the cold is dark, and there is the threat of ice tonight. There aren’t angels
In Boston. Or if there are, they’ve got their heads down against winter.
People or angels walk like horses pulling cabled streetcars or like streetcars.
There’s a dirty sidewalk and some leaves have come from the trees left standing.
On one of those intersections— call it something and Newbury—
Nobody’s wearing gloves. Their heads are all bare. Cars rock back too early for green.
Down that way is the water and the grass, probably dying. Maybe if the cold comes tonight
As hard as they say, the ticks will die.
The mares get them worst on the softest flesh below their hind legs. Horrible
Scabs on warm secret teats, so unexposed like the creases where teddy bears don’t wear.
I’ve been checking under my fingernails for little black ones. Worst is when they pop before you pull them.
They say Lyme doesn’t show for a couple of months, so it’s a matter of time.

II.

The barn manager loads a rake in a wheelbarrow. He’s full of conversation.
You know where they come from right?
I’m running my hands down the gray’s leg, feeling her surface for
bumps, feeling her cannon for heat. Hoping the flecks are compact, hard, unfilled. Hoping her
Cannon is cool, slim, unswollen.
Ticks? My hands travel up to her girth (scabby) then to her chest.
You know the government made them? In labs? You know that?
On the base of her neck, I pin one between my nail and finger. Her left ear is on me, but she is still.
I can hear the prick. I see Capocha’s ear twitch.
I flick the leggy pink body onto cold cement, Oh really?
And there’s the damn head still buried. My hands keep searching.

III.

They call it sleep; it’s actually hiding. There aren’t angels in Boston.
How the hell did we let this one happen?