Stalking.
The neighborhood is dangerous
but we go there.
We walk the long way.
Our jangling keys
mute the sound of our stalking.
To be under the sky, above
or below a man.
This is our heat.
radiant in the night.
Our hands blister with semen.
A field of flowers blossoms
where we gather
in empty warehouses.
Our seed falls
without the sound or
grace of stars.
We lurk in shadows.
We are the hunger of shadows.
In the dark
we don’t have to say
I love you.
The dark swallows it
and sighs like we sigh,
when we rise
from our knees.