Psyche Incites a Riot
This I brought upon myself.
All of us, newly returned
from the edge of the underworld,
the body going under, but not the voice.
You know the story, the flags
of Fire Island hung at half-mast.
When the swine came, their boots
blackened, buckles spit-shined
until they flared under the naked
bulbs, it was us that were corralled.
No cowboys with their silver
guns, angel hands, were there
to keep the peace. Zazu, as she
is cuffed and led away, sings
“Hello Bluebird” and the girls
with their manhood tucked
and taped mouth the echo.
We are constituted by an absence
of voice, a lust for tenor. Grief
is the thickest of greases,
and what it covers is clay and steel,
graffiti, a faint penny taste
in our mouths. We have bitten
our tongues like raw mothers,
we have birthed ourselves, hemmed
by everything we have borne.
The veils have been pulled
from our faces, and we are
using them as shields.