Glory Be to the Gang Gang Gang

In praise of all that is honest, call upon the acrylic tips

and make a minaret out of a middle finger, gold-dipped

and counting. In the name of Filet-O-Fish, pink lemonade,

the sweat on an upper lip, the backing swell and ache

of Abdul Basit Abdus Samad on cassette tape, a clean jump shot,

the fluff of Ashanti’s sideburns, the rice left in the pot

the calling cards and long waits, the seasonal burst

of baqalah-bought dates.

Every time they leave and come back

alive.

Birthmarks shaped like border disputes.

Black sand. Shah Rukh’s dimples, like bullets

taking our aunts back to those summer nights,

these blessings on blessings on blessings.

Give me the rub of calves,

rappers sampling jazz,

the char of frankincense

and everything else that makes sense

in a world that don’t.