Half Moon

You could keep me from paper, but not from these thoughts, in the end I’d have skin hunger to nail the hammers in my neurons
If half of my culture is here then the other is in Sweden

I n the countryside toward the boars heart

And every morning, doctor,

Every afternoon,
I douse in winter and chocolate

And when the women fall asleep there are no window locks and colorful needles
And my husband would fall asleep next to his green dreams and the gun control n the living room instead of the nightstand
Where a black woman can sing without holding onto her pockets
I sing to apples and tangerines of my grandfather’s existentialism,
I sing cuz he told me so
And the prisoners build their own graves
And their mothers bathe in gold instead….

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