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Ghazal for Becoming Your Own Country
Know what the almost-gone dandelion knows. Piece by piece The body prayers home. Its whole head a veil, a wind-blown bride. When all the mothers gone, frame the portraits. Wood spoon over Boiling pot, test the milk on your own wrist. You soil, sand, and mud grown bride. If you miss your stop. Or lose love. If even the medicine hurts too. Even when your side-eye, your face stank, still, your heart moans bride. Fuck the fog back off the mirror. Trust the road in your name. Ride Your moon hide through the pitch black. Gotsta be your own bride. Burn the honey. Write the letters. What address could hold you? Nectar arms, nectar hands. Old tire sound against the gravel. Baritone bride. Goodest grief is an orchard you know. But you have not been killed Once. Angel, put that on everything. Self. Country. Stone. Bride.