DM du Jour

When the Occupy movement came
to Saint Louis, an encampment
of the old black homeless and the young
white activists in sleeping bags
on the sidewalk, we marched. We sat
in jail cells side by side. We said,
the police will cross this bridge
over us.

You are the most difficult one
to write. You are the one
for whom words do not paint
an adequate picture.

And once, twice, three times you stayed
the night before leaving.
By morning I had disappeared,
losing myself in a body,

finally, a body,­
I could crawl into.
We slept like peony petals,
pressed together like ear bones –
pale, thin and curved.
By morning I had gone
at least a dozen times
into someplace safer.

For months I crawled into your twin bed,
warm and too small
for both our bodies, like a child with a nightmare,
curling against the mother

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