my mouth a cunt in reverse and my guts, nuts.
I nose the dark nursery, belly for my dick spurting ink at shit.
you know no kid’s name a word, but some shit-to-do.
no kid ain’t shit but a map to its folk
traced by its folk to where they buried their folk.
took that shit that made me to make me make myself myself,
rolled in on papa’s red nuts like they a fucking chariot.
these days my guts stay aching. my head an empty crib.
I sit to my work on me to work on. life is its own hunger for itself.
I want only one to feed.
Source: Poetry (December 2013).
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This poem originally appeared in the December 2013 issue of Poetry magazine