APOTHEOSIS
We are back to the beginning and have gone
inside. The bats have come down, wooden
and sterile, to greet the joints, to rearrange
teeth and thoughts. Faggot was a thought
that snuck inside me, was put inside me,
and all the fields inside me turned Greek,
meaning tragic, meaning its beasts
were hybrid and hard to slay:
a faggot in the nigger, a nigger and a faggot
and though both hollered I couldn’t let them go.
Still this is a faggot’s tale, and he says: tired
of the new prescriptions of the world, I woke
to the bass of a stranger’s Hummer but thought
I remained, still, in my violent dream. He said,
Maybe
there isn’t a thing to keep this blood from draining.
Yet having felt the heat in me shake like a window,
this moment’s an unhinging, a loosened fiber (“pussy
nigga” from the Hummer, “batty bwoy” in the dream)
taking possession of this thinking. So the faggot man said.
It was how the word made dark his every room: faggot
the only definition for faggot, a measured burn
at the edge of sleep. To see in his dream a fire
ant crawl from the eye of a dead crow, to see himself
as the dead crow and not the ant, to know he was
the crow in sleep and when awake—it was the sharp
of the word that sharpened itself, teaching him
how to describe himself, faggot like a new lexicon,
and it entered him, became a childhood
memory: faggot in a house in a cradle full of sticks lit
at their tips like cigarillos: faggot tied to the wheel
of his family’s iris and spun and cudgeled: Faggot where
you going this late at night: faggot where a pit bull
pirouettes another pit bull in its mouth: faggot who faggots
flagrantly his gilded gums with hurrah and haints:
faggot in the fly horde sucking at a corpse-supple wound
stitch by stitch until the fabric pops open:
fabric pops open and the wind moves through: faggot
coming in like the wind: how the wind comes again
when it can but different than it had been: a storm
that was both weapon and shield until already
it had entered where neither—anymore—mattered.