molasses and pollen

for R.D. whose soul is weaved through each curl that fertilizes earth & who I will forever love.

No one can say if (he) will come back. The sky has been replaced by brick with locks at each corner and who is really strong enough to bypass cement. We are fertilized by the sweet      by the gender we choose      by the mileage of stickiness that forgets our breathing. But that man over there cannot get over the death of his father from twenty years ago and we get stuck and we get stuck and we submerge our necks in lament. No one can say if (you) will heal. There is a reason there is so much gauze and antibiotics. If bodies could be powered by gasoline, perhaps we’d be forced to check in more often. If there is music, fist it with your bones and allow its bass to exorcise you. If there is food, be unafraid of its pleasure or the way it feels to bite down on spice and maybe this is all too familiar and maybe you need to prepare for the obstruction. If this were refined, you’d be more prepared. It is simply dark and raw and if anybody asks, you were away on holiday, celebrating the birth of your second or third or twelfth self. Within loneliness, lines where people wait for their turn at you. Ask the wind; it blows in your direction from the east and it is red and it is bloodied but that is yellow and it is ready and so are you.