A NIGHT ON THE TOWN
Tonight, how you dress
is as one with
what you mean by it.
Red lips. Wide eyes.
A skirt that whispers
in the wind.
And you burn, but quietly.
Like a match held
just shy of the strike.
Your body is a fortress
dressed as a palace.
Inside may be a riot of want.
But outside, you maintain
the calm of a young woman
who can calculate the odds.
Alone, you are all spark.
No audience, no need.
But still, you hesitate.
Still, you tell yourself
it’s okay to be this:
nervous, anxious, excited.
What kind of fire
will the night bring,
you wonder.
A warm one
is your dream.
Your nightmare
is a flame that will
consume you.
MY NAME IN THIS NEW WORLD
My name belongs to Facebook,
Instagram, the government, hackers,
whoever wants it—
and,
with its lack of interest
in me these days,
it’s willing to go
with whoever asks—
I’ve heard it’s
in the money
in Nigeria,
and having a sordid
but great time
with someone called Mimi
whose name
is, in fact,
available to me
though I believe
it’s just an alias—
these days,
my name is all over the world
and I can barely afford
to travel to the adjoining states—
my name is not famous—
it’s merely symptomatic.
AN ATTEMPT AT RECONCILIATION
What I want to say.
Like a carton duck on steroids.
With a tongueless mouth.
Taken to the extreme of quackery.
I rip the phone from my scalp,
Your voice rockets past me.
Screeching and roaring.
Shattered like my brain.
The next seconds.
Silent and painful as a bee sting.
What did I want to say?
You make me forget.
Now I’ve heard everything.
And couldn’t respond.
What did you mean?
Are there really two kinds of people?
I feel used up.
Or flattened like a dead squirrel on blacktop.
Dissatisfied. Breaking out in a rash.
Nice weather, though.
I want to have it all.
But I can’t come up with what I’m lacking.
I’m no inventor.
I get emotional in the presence of an illusion.
You hung up.
There’ll be no next time.
I caught you at a moment when you were invincible.
And I’m that other “in” word—intolerable.
After/Thought Literary 