all my loves are imaginary,
as in, the hummingbird huddled in my throat
sings a song sharp enough to bleed to,
as in, i’m falling thru skylines of wounded honey,
limbs refusing to write a wreck any closer 
to beauty, as in, i bruise easy, & can’t 
help but wonder if this world is actively trying
to kill us, as in, our us is our’s,
as in, the sugar in our wounds sprouts 
from their tongue, as in, we bury ourselves,
light vigils for us, as in, by us, as in, 

the us who zip our scalps into 
cornrowed cocoons, who spend Sundays
plucking names out of gums with our
great-aunt’s toothpicks, who stuff our pocket-
books with pocketknives & our salts
with pepper sprays spewed across molehills
of men small enough to envy our shine,
as in, we’re the only us we have 
to hold, as in, the ozone oils the tips of 
our tongues, the celestial ceased yet cared for
as rosary beads of summertime sweat,

as in, poems like these double 
as prayers, their stanzas shoveled beside 
God-winks & gospel-licks, their 
syntax spoiled as spells broken in threes, our
gristle multiplied again & again until 
all the parts of us waiting to be replaced 
are tired, as in, i cry for & with us 
on sidewalks slicked in mountain range, 
mourning the many rivers i’ve wasted for sweet 
nothing’s sake, as in, the more we love, 
the more our bones ache for the wingless.

— Quentin Felton