Some sort of perfection: bare legs like perfect shells, 

flat & stark-tan in the hungry sea. 

Inherited mournings aren’t just our jam & city grease  

But the kernels too, the butter & 

allergy hard popping on the block, 

Ready for restaurant-quality chops & 

a feminist movie. Tell me a secret, 

The one you won’t give me straight, 

the alternate prayer for injustice & ignorance & I & you &  

Our dichotomy in complex analysis of death.  

The sweet mess of lips, the smattering of shock before the body runs out, 

Mind ablaze in freefall. Autobiographical, 

half-cultural essays & the titular death  

Left as an exercise until the appendix,  

Lingering with a brush of crooked pale fist & last furrowing of a brow & 

Unapologetic statements & 

starring until the end reaches you.