black flesh / black feeling

i give him  my throat

of little importance

emptied it of meaning

the flesh of his fingers

is language like whispered words

of need                             and   i am an arrangement of needs

in the hands of an answer

i give him my throat                    supine

and  surrendered

to fill with feeling for which

there are no words

i am opened

like black fruit

surrounded by flies who covet sweet secrets

before an audience of men

with throats like mine

waiting to be opened as well

we will smell his flesh

be warmed by his body

place our faces in his palm

remember the fingers of our father

the insufficiency of mothers

and love songs

like              he’s got the whole world             in his hands

we will stretch ourselves like dead men

speak no words

hear no sound                  but the in and out of air

as he breathes into us               early saturday  survival

we will remember never hearing

the heaviness of manfeet in the dark

when nightmare moves the mind

we will remember empty chairs

and absent touch

and playing catch with god

we will wait our turn to die

wait the razor and possibilities of blood

where men cease to be

who lay down to die softly

and rise up to destroy

we give him our throats

to cut our groves of fear

to relieve us of the memories

we never made

with men who had no eyes

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