“Can’t talk to myself cuz mama said don’t talk to strangers” – Lil’ Wayne
i ask the reader to pass the blunt
edge of the chip bowl to the butchers
in the love seat the familiar guac
& salsa to the executioner biting
his nails through his leather mask
with the rest of the hangmen
raising the guillotine at the window
in lieu of venetian blinds to watch the room
light up with their slow chant
ifhedieshedies ifhedieshedies
& me too my pen raised to my left hand
a sestina etched to the skin like barbed wire.
on the screen is The Boy who looks like me
sits like me watches in horror
as his arm goes to wilt with the three line envoi
ifhedieshedies ifhedieshedies & me again
this time a sonnet to the neck
filling The Boy’s throat till it a wad
of dust. a cyst of stunned rock. whatever builds in
the corner of any question left to linger
in the road like a failed flag
like thunder mummed
by its one time use like The Boy screaming through
my words odes catching heat in The Boy’s ears
burned to nothing. his lobes like ashes
spilling out my name.