Read Me
Read Me is a space for a few of my poems to live in full.
I Seek the Dirty God
For Termaine Hicks, shot in the back three times
by police, wrongfully imprisoned, 19 years before exonerated,
and for Vanessa Potkin, his Innocence Project advocate
I seek the dirty god
who hides
in sentenced men
with broken teeth
smeared with lies
nailed and framed
on the gutter road
to crucifixion
when I find you
torn and thorned
I pray you
anoint me
with your sweat
stain me
with your blood
let me draw
your wounds
to well
your words
to geyser
springing grace
let me bare
the peace of you
that miracles
your face
I pray you
unveil in me
the Veronica
who speaks
for the god
with broken teeth
—Litmosphere, 2024
After the Tops Friendly Markets Store Shooting
I stand still, a witness
with a broken
watch, looking
for a way to fight
and mourn
every moment
left, still, to me
breathing your body
remembering
when persimmon kisses
made berries
of our lips
still
I vigil the minutes
holding watch
hands stopped
still
I smolder
in burnt offerings
of bone dust and smoke
tasting you
and the fight
I will wage
in communion
with you
on my tongue
—Main Street Rag, 2024
Granny’s Helpings, Witcher, West Virginia
Only in the wake of Granny’s passing
did I hear of the Starving Time,
the coal miners’ strike, 1929,
when Witcher Woods Holler survived
on the cast-off crusts of rich men
and the grit of their coal-tarred teeth.
Those who remembered my Granny
stood where the crossroads meet,
telling the how of her helpings,
her mercies nursing the hollow
into the full, feeding the hungry
into the fat of the earth.
In whispers in old Witcher Woods
I heard how poppets of bloodroot
and spirits of spruce spalt taught Granny
the secrets of witchberry brew,
the healings of conjure spiced stew.
In praise for her ways I heard how
Granny gave helpings of red pickled eggs
with hemlock seeds, of scuppernong wines
with foxglove leaves.
Only then did I learn how bloodroot
can hurt, how grief can make knife blades
of red pickled eggs, how Granny served
mercy with dark Witcher dirt.
—Kakalak, 2024
I found a Witcher River snake
sliding down a sycamore
seeking roots until she
fell, crumpled
like a dirty coil of curls
I reached down, picked
her up, unfolded shimmering
sapphire stains and rusty eyes
the red of buttered yams
snake curled herself to cup
my palm then slipped
between my fingers and slid
away on the rain that wet
the air, while I longed to shed
my skin, to slither with her
into dirty curls and fangs
our tongues tasting Witcher River
—Making Waves, 2024