left a warrior

 for Leslie Feinberg

in the span of two mountains, in the space between
trains, we move in quick,
bite the hands that cut us, kick back

our finger on the heart of the beet
The sink’s short memory Washed The blues
of it, red juices, stained steel,

both two or more things true and the same:
The left middle finger bandaged in peach
A stolen motorcycle on a joyride in dreams

Bite the hand that cut us, unabashed as an engine,
We slice a righteous attitude, undervalued, undiagnosed

Leave a Comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s