by three invocations. i have crawled beneath africa on
my skin. & black. i know how i smell.
putrefaction— a reek of filth.
a spectacle of shame.
because i curse euphemism. my mother wears
her faults unconcealed:
her cologne of bad stars—
bastards. over the beauty of her breasts. why
she pricks daily
at God's tongue for the will of the sea.
a trumpet blows africa
a turpid sol-fa. & mad men are wearing his facade of
perfumery.
does he smell differently?
say. i reek of filth. do i lose the pride of my skin?
or what glory then is cleansing? i wear these faults.
i know how i smell.
say. i reek of filth. & i will be quick like tide. & tell
you smell
like me.
if tonight you go to your privy. & stool your
filthiness. i hope you will remember we are
all skin.
with shitholes.