The full triptych PROOF, an interview and the first publication of the poem ‘Proof’ can be found at at Connotation Press
I cast my skin in the direction of your mouth. My hands &how they’re quick to come undone along the tiny recesses of your canvas—the white of it. The trees outside have grown suspicious. They have made a list of demands, &they are asking from me a name. I cover the stains on my lip with their shade; I tell them the name is wire. They want to know who is there in the house with me. They want to know what I’ve done with the light. I tell them the mold on the walls, how it makes me sick some nights. How the cries are the souls on wax that bluesmen have left behind. They are burrowing as we speak, below me. We are all of us, in our own way, reaching for a tatter of proof.
—&now October is where my tongue is best.