and so: what is this
to you, this

of lines, why do i write
and why do you read it?
with every poem is an anxiety
of another word
amounting to nothing
what the fuck is the point?
you ask, and i write:
if i could strip every song and every
lullaby that sent you to
and every prayer you tried
to believe in, for god’s sake
every rhyme every anthem every image that
spoke without speaking
so every film every gasp
every feeling that knotted
inside your throat made you speechless
every mutter and hum
every nation, migration
every revolution
every sentence that you labelled because it
brought your body to the present
every love every darkness
of having to get out of bed having to be
your damn self
every joy, seed-tiny
of sun on your face or something,
or something
that reminded you of your heart
beating to a rhythm
every time you thought
you had lost it
then found it minutes later
in your pocket
in that soft fisted vessel inside your chest,
away –

i would put the full stop to my poem
i would end
and so would you
and so would everything
i am weary
i am

mad tired
of writing poems to prove
prove me
prove the world
as if

poetry cannot exist without a question
of utility
bodies cannot exist without a question
of value
beauty cannot exist without a question
of prices labels genres lotions colors flowers markets barriers mirrors brokers


Image from “Cranes in the Sky” music video, dir. by Solange Knowles and Alan Ferguson

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