She inhales her melanin and somewhere I become a ripple in a pond. A name. We walk down the block, turn street into sand, telephone pole into obelisk; my names a pyramid shifting, aligned with the sun and physical for a moment, the small things. We lean on old schools in tribal ritual, your gather’s unanswered prayer, his words in the flesh as we bring our names into each other’s mouth (we are). Auset, my Queen, find me in a shrine or a sweated mosque, a house party packed where we worship the YSOP by pouring up under fire, us reinvented.
My shirt off when its 80 degree. You admire how I reign over a block, ruler of a gas station. Was I supposed to wave when we departed? Hieroglyphs on walls. A mural on my sleeve. For the homey you loved.
By Demetrius Buckley