jd, II

you are young, black, and impulsive.


everything I love you for

makes you somehow a threat to this world.


just like the bitter, clear air of late winter,

so cold it hurts to breathe–

trayvon was

twelve once, too.



i squeaked my way slowly down the stairs before dawn,

forgetting my glasses on the bedside table,

forgetting to turn on the lights,

forgetting everything but the dim glow from the streetlight,

the dull, heavy ache of my heart.


i never realized, or else, was made to forget: it is a fragile thing,

this heart of mine.


muse II

that first night in union,

you told me how you love the way

a conversation builds a private world around the people in it,

as we struggled brick by brick to do the same,

our castle hazy and magnificent by morning.


i’m sorry that it’s come to seem as if

i was just using you for your