the blueshift journal

It did not         wander from my tongue like a plank

running down the river or drifting from the shore

I       shot         it straight from my

mouth.                                                 my lips two mules of

                                                             lynch rope and jim crow.

their running, a wild

thoughtless thing

the kicking song

always sadder from the

mouth of my grandfather

while the mule mutes itself in

my grandmother.                                  she remembers

when these words were candy

coins dropped from pocket mouths

the air so silent with death that the

clanging; like it arpeggiated Gods wail.

                                                                daddy cried it

with a kosher coarse laugh and a pork

chop in his mouth. The grease coating

        his big lips as he

plays the dozens with

his cousins and drags

his children in too.

Nigga is a shape

shifter. from my

mouth, a bullet.

from his, a hurricane.

hers, an empty lung.

a still born. a ghost

whip turned apology. ask

the Ancestors for

forgiveness. their response: imagine

God cut the cliff a mouth for it’s growl.

the apocalypse hones it’s laugh. they

tell the earth to un­-dig itself so we must

stand on skulls.

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