on Fridays I don’t know if I’m more jealous of Loba’s curves
or the Gatsbyesque gluttony of Rampart’s silk skins that trigger memories
of every sari I abandoned to flee home with two suitcases Rampart
is everyone I’m scared you imagine after I leave
fairytale posing as apocalypse
what would a queer story be
without fungus-wearing flesh eaters,
bashing in the heads of civilians
catherine has never met a coward that she was too afraid to love / and when
she says “love,” she means lose / and when she says “lose,” she means
misplaced, open-mouth / chewed up penalties / places bets on boundaries /
a father whose care
always depended on
how well you swung
a blade. a long-dead
mother. this country –
with all her craggy rocks
and poisoned waters –
she will never love you.
Somewhere worth bringing you home to
is the most I can ask. I thought we’d never
have a house with bread or wine again, gold
grain littered against the skyline, but we’ve come
so far for it. We’ve cut across this place in pickaxe
scars and stakewalls, stumps left like stray hairs
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