Rough

Speak boy,
I crave your mouth to open,
pouring out your mad histories on me
with lips parting,
words thumping out of you,
this language creating your reality,
focusing your heritage,
limiting and expanding your experiences.
I pray you then, Speak.

The fall came late that year,
heat spitting,
the earth stumbles
to get back on her aching feet
just as we hear the wild women call to share space,
sit in a circle
and count astrological signs and symptoms,
phoenix and sphinx
swap stories
from the kings of Babylon
to the interstate travel on
a Friday night
when the kids and their curb appeal
leak out into the city,
cop cars sitting in the dark,
whispers of the next meth lab bust
and the baby drowned in the cold bath water.

Smirks in the nighttime,
slow motion magic,
I move towards white knights
though they were always without their armor
crying in crawlspaces
and throwing up on my bedspreads,
thus maybe they were just cold marble angels
standing next to clocks
in the hallway,
and hat stands growing impatient
for the party to end
so they could go home to their wives
who wept quietly in bed,
pretending to be asleep.