^{for Sakia Gunn}

Sakia, if you had the weapon of your last name,

I would not know you. This steady scrape

against paper to transport fecund lament, never.

If in your hands the pearl-handled gun

my stepfather kept in the broom closet—

I'd give you the aim I practiced at twelve.

“Home is where the heart is” marks an

average man’s forehead and the trashcan

is somewhere near his jewels.

If you brought me roses in high school,

wrapped in newspaper to protect me from thorns,

I would take them, and wash ink from my fingers

in the jeans and jersey flood of your girlboy body.

Let me be your girl.

4-evah 2 eternity onto my back.

Your finger's ballpoint end, again and again

practices the heart over i, and into the morning

we stash whispers where over thread, thread crosses.

I promise

I have impeccable aim.

Pulling a trigger loosens mustangs

in your veins. Piss into my mortar—an old war

recipe makes bullets complete. Let your shower

wash an asshole from the streets.

If blood quickly betrays its avenues

for Newark's sidewalks, his shirt tires of its thirst....

If his buddy drives him to the hospital

or leaves him to watch the night unspool—

what a Jacob's Ladder he makes...

If you're shocked your life requires this exchange,

come into my arms, Sakia. Come into my arms.