Day Sixteen: Sonnet for the black boy and the famine of touch.
a hood-wide famine which starves the young boys
of touch that does not cost us any blood
neither to splatter across our sneakers
nor to rush to our bulge of ruining
we watched Michael kiss Fredo tenderly
to then orchestrate his timely murder
it learned us a sort of intimacy
where no lad’s eyes were to search another’s
for an overstayed gaze in want of warmth
begot wrong friction, coaxed fist fires
that scorched and turned smiling jaws into ash
and for as long as I can remember
I have lived in the gash of my yearning
trying my best to exhume a phoenix.