THREE POEMS
Limulus Polyphemus
“Who you looking at?” —Fred Moten
In class, I stared because of the blood going blue.
The chalk that coated our fingerly teeth.
The way we lapped each other (on the shore
where the flowering). I gave away
our location. Smacked my lips in the coat closet.
Sucked at her teeth. We, on all eights, we had magical
innards. Coagulated ground germ. We stood in the torture lights.
Sandy liked to say in those moments: , in a rasp. Her smooth neck of coal coast.In the shells they brought in. Her, whose voice I can still hear.We sat still at that. Inof her face in my face. We dodge at first, then the stainless plunge.
