Birmingham, Alabama 1952
we’re just bone beneath
the foot of the statute
never the right kind
of light, of love—lashed
with bridal wreath, laughed
& gasped at my groom
can’t be man, can’t know wife
don’t got write to paper,
to a drama of snow, a train
of sugar—they hate us so
they turn the rice to rocks
white & clogged, my eyes
capture the mannequin
bound by glass, by crows,
to cell itself from my touch
those shops, choked with cotton
laced with unworn gowns
& longing, wouldn’t let us in
errant intimacies—we hallow this
union: simple sticks jumping broom
this dress as blue as this life
as full as my mouth of yours