Rise

The stitch of mouths,
the binding of hands,
the fire, the pyre,
the frenzy—
history hangs
in the balance,
tucked between teeth,
a bite,
a smile,
a coward—
he asks you to come closer,
he asks you to trust,
he demands
your silence,
and make no mistake:
a wolf
can easily hide itself
among other wolves,
but it takes a monster
to stand in the center
and call the mirror a liar,
to deny the twist
of his own myth,
to burn Rome down
and call it justice.

There’s nothing in this room
that hasn’t happened
before—but that doesn’t mean
honest hands should give Nero
his fiddle, or that solid souls
should offer
Circe her poison—
once the seal is broken,
you do not accept it,
you do not condone it,
you do not make it pretty,
and you do not look away.

Tomorrow
has a thousand heads,
and your heart is a sword:
use it wisely. The wolf is waiting—
be the stones
in its stomach.

these bones are marked

You speak to me of secrets,
but the storm is right there,
I can point to it
with my whole hand,
feel it with my whole heart,
the darkness
that refuses to see itself
in any mirror, refuses
to acknowledge the mirror
exists, turns its back
with a smash, kindness
shattering
in the wake of a scream.

Wait and listen, then—
someone will call for your silence,
someone will ask you to calm down,
someone will tell you to buck up,
someone will demand your acceptance,
someone will remark that it will be okay,
but I want to know:
how loud is your kindness?
how furious is your compassion?
how strong is your courage?
how weak is your apathy?
and how wide are your eyes open?

This world, right now,
offers us a new gravity,
its weight is heavier
than it was a moment ago,
full of fire
that can do two things:
ravage or warm,
and we must be mindful
of the spark,
the way it catches easily
on what’s been leeched
and blanched
beyond all human recognition,
these bones
are marked by a living ghost,
a thick howling creature
with a gentleman’s smile.
Do not tell me to look the other way
in the presence
of a monster. Do not ask
that I turn the other cheek.

Do not think I will sit
down
and stay small
when a mouth
becomes a noose,
a knife,
a burning cross,
a gleeful hate.

Remember, remember
this: in a world of burning things,
we should strive
to be water,
but do not forget
that water also drowns.

Hurricane

Don’t call it what it is,
don’t examine it too closely—
the way want arrives
without ceremony
or warning, there’s no
howl, just the flick
of fingers, a feeling
that spreads like sunset,
all color
and no shame,
an unexpected patchwork
that reads like a miracle,
invisible
and yet not—
an echo,
an unwasted spark,
a hurricane
of body and bone.

There’s always more
than one way to strike
a match, to give thanks,
to unravel
the astonishment
of desire—
but a crooked heart
always leans in one direction,
and you are a splendid
magic, a fully satisfied
smoky secret,
pushed beyond warning
into bonfire,
and this
is a steady invitation,
unbuttoned
and imperfect,
a crack of fire
undeterred by the rain.

In the end, a mouth
can be a safehouse,
the curve of a hip
a happy mistake,
the way it feels
to laugh into a kiss
without breaking—
no self-defense,
only freedom.

Now, examine it closer,
take a naked look
at this sweet circus,
the harbor of a red mouth,
all salted skin
and rough promise—
there’s a story
deep inside, a name
hidden
in a gasp,
come, find what’s waiting
in the dark.