If I ruled the world,
nobody’s mother would die.
Always arms would be there to catch
every falling child.
This is my poem, and I can make what I want
of it. I don’t need an audience; I need
six gallons of gasoline, a book of matches,
two machetes, more time, a large mirror,
a list of witnesses—OK, I need an audience—no,
I need co-conspirators with their own
list of needs & I need an infrastructure
where we can always find one another striking
items off each other’s lists.
I’ve already abandoned
this as a poem. It’s just a line-broken,
voice-to-text transcription I whisper to my device
as I make my way to a credit
bureau. I believe in one thing only:
when you want something bad you dance for it,
but you gotta get loose with what you call dancing.
Isn’t there some rhythm always bustling
my muscles from their boredom?
Don’t I find my name tumbling
out a lover’s mouth?
Poem Beginning with Nas & Ending in a Lover’s Mouth
A writer from Ohio, Geramee Hensley currently lives elsewhere. They edit Sonora Review and Tinderbox Poetry Journal. Their work has been featured in Button Poetry, Indiana Review, The Lantern Review, The Recluse, The Margins, decomp, and more. You can find them at geramee.com.