i lie in a lover’s wreck
hymns of keratin drowned by 
signature reds, their notes caught 
on silver tongues
the way limbs ring & shout
in colored dreams
hushed like subtle comforts 
whispered into the mouths of men
teeth huddled against a people’s fire

& yet, there are days i find myself 
peering past pillaged lips
itching for something else to save,
though foolish to believe
having blinked ourselves to breath
we found lessons hissing 
in the smoke merely by chance
when there are generations of gas
lit grandmothers still teaching us where to run

how to stay brown-skinned 
& alive, while closest to the flame,
i swear again & again that i’ve run
out of wounds to record, 
but it’s clear my bones crave 
the sweetness of soot, the weight 
words carry once haunted 
by ghosts, for even
our poem is poisonous

& needs to be breathed out.

— Quentin Felton