You are the cemetery
of brotherhood.

You poke at our faith in
each other’s angelic natures,
demanding spice
and devil noise from us.  One minute
I’m sure you’re done, the next
you’re sticking a finger in my eye.

You don’t know anything real.
In your world there’s a ghost named
the perfect past
and it haunts everything.
That there’s no such thing
as that ghost
hasn’t escaped your notice,
but it doesn’t stop you.
The way you talk is ripped lingerie,
salt in a cut, con man sweet talking into
a rape in a hallway.

I’m going to write you a letter
and send you a postcard
and leave you a voice message
and shout at your house after hours.

It’s the way you want it, isn’t it?
It makes you feel
worthy to be my enemy,
to dismiss me,
call me a mental burp…
hey, you got me again, you slick
shit on an oaken mantel.  Make of me a trophy
of some white contest for black arts…
and dammit, I play into it.
I need to call you out
the way you need me to call you out:
that’s the game.  We do it
for love of our own voices,

the truth
just a secondary gem.