Word Medicine
because your
eyes remind me of watermelon rinds
scraped clean of their meat by
gnarled teeth
because today your skin is not burnished honey,
but has come to mean bowel movements
end
result
because your lips are the purple grapes of yehmaya and
each time we kiss i bite them, in my mind,
til the juice runs thick to stain my chin
little sister
i would swallow you in pieces to keep you whole
feast on your flesh and hold you in my belly
til the mark of this beast music
dissolves from your forhead
scrapes itself clean from the bones of
your hand
beast music that grinds us like
so many butchered animals
seasoned and smashed into
pussypopping patties
served with a supersize of pimp juice
we are happy meals of martial metaphors with
toy surprise credit cards swiped through
disposable ass cracks
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