Because, they move thickly
There are more than two- but two kinds-
The one that inquires, animal eyes trapping pine forest fires
The one that digs crescents into palms, screeching nails gently
Chalk-choked and purple scars along the fingers.
Red meat leaking
Perfumed chemicals and coriander
A spice hooked in the air and dragging
The things they carry under charred skin.
I am the bell in the jar and they
The dumb aquiline-eyed calves gentle
But stirring in the hive
feeding on the leftovers, lean.
Teacher, crawl across the stained tides
Desire painting pashmina scarves about their ankles, wound
Up the tendons of a music box haunting
The mausoleums they built of markers and plastic.
The flecked brown stories of their people
Things falling at the center, the hold
Cannot swell enough to keep their trails
We plan to forget them with our weapons.
Pages marking them branded with print
A pause in the metamorphosis, it splits
For them to see beyond the grease and linoleum
to beyond May two years from this, where
Nothing is bright.