among all

the old white cis folx I know
I’m almost the one
who’s oldest, whitest, cis-est, so

don’t call me a cunt
or silly
or a prick and

it’s just my turn
on the pyre

of necessity
heat seeking
alternate titles

for the ceaseless moments
we’re caught in the gravity strands
of when we’re bereft

for stars to be aligned

at least for any two
the shortest distance between us
shall we call it straight

our lips our legs our
polysyllables not

the volcanoes of lava
the balls of pumice
bobbing on oceans of grief?