You’re not surprised you died so inelegantly
in your own home your own bed faced down
on bended knee as if in raptured prayer.
Your brown bottom jutted upwards slippery
from the night before. Your linen outdoor fresh
after drying on the line all afternoon under
that legendary Jamaican sun. Its promise
of warmth unbowed. No other way to love
you insisted. No other way to hold and be held.
To sip salty sweat from the lobe of his ear.
To submit be breached broken succulent
as sugar cane snapped off at the root sweetness
gnawed from the stalk leaving the chewed
pulp. No other way to fuck than to offer
as sacrifice your dusky body on this holy altar
of cotton sheets the subtle scent of cedar trees
and hibiscus growing in the yard. No other way
to soil and be soiled. Murder like making love
is always messy. You dreamed this troubled
ending the moment you proclaimed I exist
dazzling in cutoff tops and purple glitter painted
nails. Still even stars that sparkle brightest fall.
What mad god formed you batty bwoy
then led you to your slaughter?
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