Dear Harriet Tubman,
How is it to be buried under the singular displeasure of the sentence?
Your life story is depicted in a series of silhouette panels; i.e. the sentence like a sentence. In one, an infant’s body. In another, trees surround the figure of the woman shape. Then the marriage. Then the journey. Then the house. Then the death bed. Then the letters. Harriet, I eat the pink stained tyranny of a sentence for you-- get a little bit emo. I get emo near the garbage by the placard. I get emo next the Lay’s Potato Chips bag. I get emo-tional around the empty Heineken bottles likes doves in the bushes. I get emotional in the sweater I’m wearing. I get emotional on my way into the Dunkin Donuts. I get emotional on my donut.
When I look at you I say I am not a white man.
It has to be said, Harryette, that I’m 28 and stuck in the vortex of being 28
in the age of the internet and liminal spaces. One of my poem’s fingers creeps in to my asshole. & everything is there.
There is a pleasure to the body torn to pieces.