When you say I’m too loud, I carry the boombox of a Bronx summer block party higher on my back. I’m in love with the loud of my voice, I treat you well with my truth. The macaw and I...

My skin is a tightrope teetering, a tongue captive, chains halting the steps of my ghetto, a scythe, a subway pole chafing the larynx silent. This skin, that weeps wears crowns, stolen—the mighty, fallen to thirst. Medieval cities drag oceans, trail pale venom under tongue, a bull’s lisp spills secrets of ancient trampled bodies. I...