Crying love, in tongues
of false thunder. If my body is a nation—and by body I mean
my black queer pussy, it’s phantom and light—is a paperweight
pressing a constitution like a new shirt.

I take my father’s nose and shove it in a box.
My mother’s mouth lays claim to the vowels
Of my making. I learned to tend and till and dig
and there is something like a hole where a good
family should be but instead I have the good people
who do the best they can with what they have.

There is no homonym for disappearing, only
synonyms. Vanish into the ivory tower language.
Perish beneath split selves. End her. Die her. Fade.
Dissolve one blue bupropion until numb. Melt away
thick kink with bleach, die one patch pink.