Nine New Po­ems


For Taueret Davis, March 28, 2015

1. My plane touches down at JFK. There’s tur­bu­lence.

In the back of an Uber, I scroll Face­book, see Rest in power, pow­er­ful femme. I yell no to no­body.

Your friend tells me she left us Satur­day night, femme, like she said she would. I say, Take it back. She says, Femme, I wish I could. I think, that was you, mak­ing a big noise over Brook­lyn, rock­ing the plane’s wings hard, all your fierce wind and light­ning.

You al­ways did what you said you would.

There is re­ally no more you.

2. What would you have me do to cel­e­brate your death?

Eat a big steak and drink good bour­bon.

Fuck well. All the deca­dent, beau­ti­ful things you loved. You on the in­ter­net a week ago sell­ing all your gor­geous high-end sex toys you got from work: How could no one have no­ticed?

How could I fuck with them?

How could I not?

What is the right way to mem­ory you?

3. Who can out stub­born you, stub­bornest femme cunty hippo bitch war­rior?

The an­swer: no one.

4. I have gone as deep as you, I think. I can’t know. No one could out-cunt stub­born you, in­clud­ing in your de­ter­mi­na­tion to die.

5. Are they gonna play “Ana­conda” at your fu­neral? Did you leave a note? How is your mama gonna bury you? Is she why you did it?

6. Th­ese deep Black femme wa­ters. All you couldn’t say. All the do­nated ba­nana pud­ding at your me­mo­rial. All the peo­ple cry­ing. Sur­prised. I wasn’t sur­prised. You went out with a per­fectly ex­e­cuted bang like the best bur­lesque num­ber you ever did. You in that last In­sta­gram say­ing, I just want to be a mess. Fall apart. Be loved.

7. It wasn’t just, We should’ve loved you harder.

It was more like, you needed this world to be bet­ter, to make you want to stay.

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