A tribute

thank you for telling me everything was my fault
'cause that fault-line crack in my confidence
has become one of my favorites.
a favorite fissure filled with gold
like Japanese pots and Van Gogh paintings of sunflowers

and thank you for taking what I gave ungratefully,
your great greed rive guidance to my dreams.
dreams overwhelmed with your absence,
with furious flames of affection, with toothy grins
and thank you's, so many thank you's

speaking of which, thank your for wresting from
my trembling fingers what I was unwilling to give.
your teeth drawing colorful scarves from between my teeth
of stifled cries, caressing fingers fitful nights, and gagging humiliation

and in case I forget, thank you for pretending you escaped unscathed
from between my claws and from between my legs.
my thick, muscular tentacles relinquishing you readily
into your ravenous hunt for fresh meat to bury
your loneliness in

case you forget, thank you for not being unscathed.
for being your own prophecy told and retold
om miserable, unwilling whispers of how
none of us sirens were notches in anything but your bones
and when your closet vomits out your skeleton
you can't hide from us anymore

At least I learned to acknowledge my broken femurs
and slicing, broken-glass-edge defense mechanisms.
I learned it from wanting to antithesis myself of you.
so thank you for being yourself, for being mean,
for being blind, for being insecure and shattered

Here's to you. may this tribute be like mouthwash,
cleansing and burning and forcing you to
shut the fuck up
even if it's only for 45 seconds or so

Our women

I tell you what, they know deep
My aunties, they wrap their firm, old arms 'round every neck
Sowing kisses like seeds and heartache, and I tell you what
For every name they recall like catechism they know stories
Like honey and vinegar, sepia photos and tales
Of deep mountain moonlit mischief & how Grandmaw used to make cornbread
And how Grandmaw stopped making cornbread when her memory abandoned
Her life stretching into thinner threads of flashing snapshots til they snapped
And she was gone
The decadence of the soil of our home and how it's not our home anymore
Our women carry heritage in their bones and playfulness in their grins
They are broken and brave, stubborn and kind, our women are the bards
Who burden their backs with the aches of yesterday and the glories of tomorrow
I tell you what, my aunties, they know deep
Exploring catacombs and mine shafts with the lights burning in their eyes
And I tell you what, I know where my blood comes from
I know where my pride comes from
Because I am our women now.

Our men

Muted majesty, powerful men amble outside
Their steps are heavy and slow, cigarettes hanging famliarly from their
Sticky lips, their conversations held in low grumbles of laughter
Eyes that have seen so much twinkle with practiced mischief
Breaths full or beer and mirth rise from their belly
They talk of hard times, what their daddy did, what they did
They talk about the earth, they talk about the railroads
Telling of the rocks and mines and metal that forge their blood
My family, my kin, these are our men, they kiss their women, leathery cheeks
Adding extra vowels to their doting nicknames, drawling
"Honey"s and "baby"s sink into my ears and my heart and I know
These are our men, broken and earnest, passionate and reckless,
Gentle and growing older