Equal parts flour and fat cooked
over low heat to new mooned midnight
on a winter’s solstice, not blonde, not red becauseYaya requires a deeper dive towards
Three Poems
when white supremacistsproudly enunciate murderwith the hard R like a butcherknife splitting crosshairsbetween palatable resistanceand acquiescent silent gesturesor maybe i should askwhen we stopped believingin tomorrow’s ability to bloomfrom the pal