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ampersand,
    weary of squinting against the rays of the son.
    Artist, look again at him.
    Give him back his eyes,
    the burnished cheek.
    Draw him whirling, furious about all this.
    Make him holy beyond canvas,
    chisel, and the saying so.
    Brushstroke him a mouth that moves,
    with teeth that clench and assert.
    Let his wails wash over us,
    we who rendered him no brighter than hill and oxen,
    we who always knew his name but never who he was.

DOWN 4 THE UP STROKE
    for Danny Solis
    But you have poetry, you say.
    And if you can tell me what poetry is,
    where the line is drawn
    between the beauty and the breathing
    of breath into something to make it beautiful,
    I will claim poetry as my own.
    Poets, when last breath sought to seduce,
    your mojo flashed skinned nerve to the open air.
    You bitched and cajoled until I was pissed enough
    to assign you the task of my wounds.
    You said Patricia,
    come to us if the world bleeds through.
    You drove in from the city and backhanded me
    with your clunky rhymes, your limp couplets,
    your falterings, your leaps for the sky,
    your lean and joyless works in progress.
    You jumped up and down on my heart,
    yelling beat beat,
    when I was June’s only sin, you screeched
    beat beat,
    when there was nothing I could do but be a liar
    flat under everyone, you angled storm boot heels
    at my chest until the irritation warmed dead muscle
    and pulled it onto the dance floor. Ignore the mic static.
    What unflinching poems spring from the mouths
    of the almost dead. I could never love me like this.

WOMEN ARE TAUGHT
    I’m convinced it’s a man’s smell that pulls us in—
    faux leather and spiced soap, splashes of lemon
    and Old Spice, the odd oil tinging his sweat.
    As women, we were designed to wither beneath
    the mingled stench of them. As a woman, I was
    yo, yo, baby work that big ass, you must want
    designed
    what I got
    to wither
    c’mon honey just let daddy stick it in a little bit
    beneath
    bitch of course i love you i give you money don’t i
    Why else would i cage myself in glorious raiment
    of spandex and lace, paint my panting the hues
    of burn, twist my voice from madam to smoke?
    Why else, once he has left me, do I bury my face
    in the place his sex has pressed, inhale
    what he has left, and pray to die there?
    On the day I married, I was such porcelain,
    delicate and poised to shatter. I was unflinching,
    sure of my practiced vows,
    already addicted to the sanctity of bondage.
    I was an unfurled ballad in a scoop-necked
    sheath carved of sugar. And him on my arm,
    grinning like a bear, all sinew and swagger.
    Bibles were everywhere. Dizzied by rote,
    I stared at the gold rope around my finger.
    He owned me.
    And that felt nice.
    That felt right.
    the first time i hit her
    I thought the loose tooth a temporary nightmare
    the second time i hit her
    He cried himself to sleep, and that was nice,
    that was right
    the third time i hit her
    He counted my scars and whispered never again
    baby never again
    When i’d die without you
    turned to i’ll kill you if you ever leave me
    I bristled like a hound in heat, I didn’t
    understand the not being aroused, when
    let’s get away
    turned to
    you’ll never get away
    such heat rippled my
    belly such crave in me screeching walk run run run
    run
    i etched a thin line into the throat of her running
    run
    i stalked streets just a breath behind her
    run
    i shattered our son’s skull with a shotgun
    run
    i wanted her dead.
    My first thought as he jammed the
    still smoking barrel into my breastbone
    her first thought
    as the blade mapped my chest, the
    hammer sliced the air toward my hair
    the bullet pushed me through a plate glass window
    my last thought you won’t believe this
    my last thought
    you really won’t believe this
    my last thought
    was
    he must really
    love me

LOOK AT ’EM GO
    for my granddaughter Mikaila
    Hard-sewn, soft-belly, huff, hip swing,
    teeny woman catapult, dings in the walls
    of