In the underbelly I’ve rot for forest
I’ve rocks for waste—& when I venture
past the terracotta pots for homes squatting
on their little plots their aches, past brick
& schools where my living fish
are learning to sing the blanks, our erasure
from the history books—where neighborhoods fade
at the desert’s edge I stumble into the dumping
ground, the burial yard of our domestic
detritus, our cultural junk:
love-or-violence-stained mattresses
disemboweled & springs
like broken limbs stabbing through, the hulls
of busted washing scrubbing
fucking machines & every
carcass of steel, condoms seeping
their waxy milk into the dirt, mountains bodied
of babydolls with missing eyes & empty
casings of bullet shells &
plastic bags like pregnant bellies, innards
the buzzards have pulled clean—