Camonghne Felix

i. My body a full echo                I dawdle down to the creek Ask the god of blood for Abundance     continuity My offering      the syrup of pressed beans   & A 7-winged tulip ii. Later the rains swell the creek with coffee            the storm        a beckoned sheet The immortal herself reaping the earth          the tongues cut out of the cows iii. I walk in                       as the wash      attempts its valiant swallow A cafeteria aid             wipes the cotton from the counter Her bald eyes              aurora with       seeds You brought that           didn’t you? iv. My bottom lip a pink venom     My desire a valley with legs       His steady fingers toying the tea            I look up to a straight line and bury it    Can’t downsize what hithers me Every now & then a troubled thirst opens my mouth for a song that does not come I feel it all until a fixed voice decides No      but wait      you’re the water

“But there were times when you offered your consent with older men. You chose them, & you were not afraid. Why not?” You don’t know the true success of survival till you’ve experienced the adrenaline of a too-close death. What is there to fear when you’ve licked the edge? It is going to be an oppressively hot summer, the New York Post says, but I’ve got a few of my own stowed away, enough to occupy a foreign desert. There was one summer, his name was Tito and my sisters still say his name just like that, “Tee-toww,” the O a benchmark in the bottom of the jaw. I was just 12 but the gaze itself made me a flame, so no one could tell, I guess, or no one would tell. He was the kind of heavy swelter that had the whole block at mercy, everyone’s connect to whatever they needed, which was much and in bulk. Power is a switch that yokes me up at the waist — I was young & enamored by this pattern of men who shouldn’t want me but would risk day to touch the stark chant of me. Each time, I imagined a witchcraft enveloping the bone. I remember, once, at some low hour in the trough* of that summer — my mouth a voyaging boat, Tito’s spine a current of illicit knots, his hand a spindle on the back of my coarse head — he looks down at me, & moans out “Who the fuck are you?” I say, and the answer is always the same thereafter: nobody, who are you? *Okay, in any event, Elizabeth and I were in the pool, swimming and playing.

Badu: This cyclone of good fortune. You handling? Kendrick: Happy blessing myself. graduated          , struggle come big           far a blur . Problem is           my bubble.                    Tell me “You’re crazy            by yourself,” “Kendrick” I’m in my own world. let everything consume me. The other end, has a conception of who what comes from me, from within no matter passing            or playing ball. Was a               hole            building up for this pen,                      I wanted to be the best so I’m taking it.