how do bones fly? wings, feathered graves thin and hollow.
the way sins fluoresce in fire
a calypso on your spine
prayer seeps heavy breaths,
his vision blacked into the mountain’s mist.
i thought of the hibiscus bush gone now 20 years
that lived at my great gran’s house.
erect, mustard stamen and petals, pink-lipped tender, nodded
to the wind, grew out of concrete, soared over the gully
choked with timber-sized bamboo.
there was a Son but
i let go of his hand before a thunderstorm.
his spirit, already untied, drifted to
be shredded on a thicket of branches
his black body torn but safe from america
now ruined in the claw of a tree
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