If the broom fits

      -after the Yerbamala collective & SR

This next poem is called Infection

Phenotype eye poison

or how we are infected with whiteness

The unstoried poet touchtypes

It’s his mother’s dictate

Gender’s abandoned punchcard

Tell him to tell it to the dead

the Irish joke already gone

These fists of mine

Bled in from mixing

the color of epidemic

captured or orphaned

I heard the food hit the floor

3 second rule but ate it anyway

2 lovely sons

Listened to 4 saints

but lost it at 3 card monte

2 one-hundred franc notes

Paris flea mart 

near parochial school

I see your city

& surrender it

I see you in such a metropolis

Mother of figure & line

She said welcome cavemen

welcome conquests

so long ritual onslaught

This next poem is called

If the broom fits (witch)

it is time to ride