after Solange Knowles
i am steeped in hunger & you are a dinner
of bones. above us the moon could get full
like a plate, but certain ephemera
such as the Galileo telescope
has been put away & so, how to name
what we feel, is lost on us. epoch of Vulcans.
the neighbor’s wind chimes set the eerie mood
around us. we pay no attention to details
such as these, nor visit on front porches
pointing at the dark firmament anymore.
there are people in empty woods still searching
for Bigfoot. but Pluto isn’t even a planet
now & Denise, with hair like mine—
disowned by the perfect family decades ago.
if there was one just lukewarm for me
we’d be lying in a field of damp grass
this rain shower washing our teeth, for sure.
perhaps, enamor only lasted back when
the art of letters lit a gradual sort of flame.
maybe we can find a way to bend our hearts
around the language we’re afraid to use. but, nah.
we don’t even know the music of the Theremin:
what can be manipulated without touch