Kendra DeColo
(Commencement Ceremony at the Tennessee Prison for Women)
Near the crooning of an electric piano,
the prison's lush dark
a jukebox of confessions
and contraband-dazzlement,
her tongue ignites
an invocation, music blurred
convex between her legs
the way I imagine
she taught herself
to feel good, syllables resuscitating
in her lungs making each breath
poignant, a rawness
cutting through the gaze
of c.o.s and visitors rising
for a better view. How undone, cold-
blooded would I be
to sing straight
for this crowd, brightness
squeezed from split vowels,
the throat luminous as a flock of strings?
What would be reconciled
inside the cell of my body
breaking open
to hold god's
featherless shape,
the phrases wincing
mid-air like an aura
aching with flight?
I know I'm a coward, lusting
for what belongs to no
gender, stripped
and un-sequined
octaves burning
in the throat.