The dyke within
tires of
the nigger without,

sick of rope
when the brick
calls her name.

Same blood,
same alley,

wrong hands,
wrong headline,

wrong barking pack
circling the same
hellmouth,

same body
split, cracked
open.

Wrong balm
slicked
on the sin,

wrong North
guiding the killer’s
new heart,

wrong village
tasked
with forgiveness,

same torches
blackening
the door.

All the women
in this body
burn at once,

no matter
how wrong
the fire,

& oh god,
the sound:
a chorus,

the notes,
softer
in sum,

a dirge
for killer’s
hands

as they
surely break
bread

for a lover
with half
this face

and twice
the room
for flame.

Kemi Alabi, 2 Poems