The Book of Yeezus

An arrow does its own form of singing I like to believe
this means nothing          is ever too far
from the bird that it was   I tender the dark
with a hum we cannot die in    a legion
of spells for the Black boys who learned
to make the light sorry     All I have ever wanted
is to be the wound you neon
All I have ever wanted is to die beautiful
in hands I could mistake for yours
All seasons are becoming the season
of my isolation   The green sputters long
into December so I think we are all less invested
in loyalty these days     O you gilded Amistad
the mouth I’d forgive without question froths
with an armada of golden-hulled ships    Excess
I too pretty the interruption when I cannot bear
the elegy any longer     I don’t know how not to love
what would kill me without noticing     I can be
ferocious with my ugly  I can be the knife chanting
silver through the abrasion     I wish I could write
of you as something that would break if I held it
living for too long     O grief-cousin    phantom-chain
wind-throne    blade-choir   What is death to the children
of the forgotten     One day too my mother will die
and my loneliness will be a hyperbole of ravens
all of which will sing like fugitives    Glory   Glory
how much I’ll miss her     While yours anthem in the wrong
direction     I will probably still love you then  Glory    Glory
how easy I march in defense of another man who wants me dead

Source: Poetry (December 2019)