some afternoons music sways like a broken screen door
in a distant part of a house i was never a god in. it’s flooded
with marigold light & it makes sense that my milk
teeth have been traded to deep south spiritualists.
they say I was born fanged & feathered like
no child from heaven should be. a miracle
that when I lost those teeth I became human.
my feathers burned one by one each year of my life.
i’m tired of the way my mouth fills with guava
seeds like infant pearls after. give me blood
from pomegranates. i demand tears
in every screen door in the south until
they fall off their hinges or every onyx tooth
is planted in the ground around my body. wait.
let a song come first from a black storm rolling
over the still sorghum fields. i am nothing
if not determined to recreate myself as a god.
so let the birds steal my teeth from the ground
& hide them in their babies’ open beaks.
listen for the heavy stillness before the rain
& know i am waiting to become whole again.