I follow the line of deformations,
The candle’s primitive rebirth,
The undulating asylum of gray.
Fugitive silhouettes spill
Over my transgressions.
I fold myself, tears searing
As they inch their way
Down my unsigned letters.
–
I pluck an orange from behind
An African mask’s demonstrative frown.
The pockmarked peel a rite of passage.
I question my own consistency,
The grandness of my envelopments
Are they enough to keep
The demimonde sidetracked?
–
My sexuality, so inconsistent
With my righteousness
My dry, albino skin, like
The sleeve of a newly
Released serpent
Too much purity
Will rot the heart
And who could endure
A life in absentia?
A life without sensuality?
A life without communion?
mindlovemisery 