Now, they know -

do they shimmer -

or do their lids lay sins again.

If they knew, they would’ve knelt -

six hammers to a sunset,

three wonders to a reach.

If they knew, they would’ve stolen you -

wrapped your fingers in gauze -

your tongue in glass.

My love,

you are not

only

in flesh

and bone.

Once,

in horns,

you knelt crooked,

and a croon

became the softest bandage

since whiskey.

In a sweat jambalaya

of white cotton

kissing wet jade,

you aren’t a nigger anymore.

You’re holy.

Knees bent,

shoes dust,

you’re funny.

Arm raised,

mouth wide,

you’re human.

Lord,

if only this trumpet

could blow to Bethlehem.

there go the sweetwater whiskey men,

limp-scented,

rose mouthed,

dancing slow footed

at punch dances -

with a dollar quarter wine

in a front hip pocket.

You say,

if dandelions break easy,

if wet sun turns ochre,

this will hold…

this will.

If they knew, they would’ve slid -

two coins across the brow,

four bows atop a hood.

If they knew, they would’ve swept you -

clipped your eyes to half moons,

perched that heart on a windowsill.

You have been reduced

to brilliance,

grey touching white

with an emptiness

like hugs

on a grave.

In your eyes,

I see

you may already understand

that this pushing you up

above himself

comes life-long.

Crowns of cloth

never keep majesty

out of the eye.

As a little girl,

baby dolls in hand,

I wonder how often

you positioned their necks

at this angle.

O’ how egos

shine like targets.