It’s how the strange and the kind can get entwined into
another version of the truth, like velvet harmless hanging in a wardrobe
or the summer, and the brief stare of the longest faces.
Another witness is dead on the news, a judge stabbed in the head.
The bold throb of rubber shifting under your tongue
every time you try to move it around
screaming your nightmares into a gentle quell.
National rivers flowing across her thigh and us dancing
to the platform no longer afraid, reclaiming everything
we lost coming here. A silver night blushing with the new girl in town and when we dance saying we dance for those who can no longer dance for themselves.
On your wedding night I draw the circles in your belly
dig cola out your navel with only my tongue.
I call you with a new name, ‘Mathakane.