The vultures land &amp; land,
dark-bodied vigils on the train tracks,
striding across bald front yards, alighting
on chipped, white steeples.
&nbsp;
The wait is just about over, the breath
of intervention ragged.
Feasting on decaying neighborhoods
that fringe cities with resurrected
midtowns, they scout
the next meal. Apparently here
&nbsp;
is next&mdash;where we learned to pedal, then drive
up &amp; down these hilly streets, where parents lay
their gray heads. Vultures, almost
grinning, spread night-hued wings
across this overcast, blank afternoon
between Christmas &amp; New Year&rsquo;s Eve,
living as they do to steal the scraps
between endings &amp; beginnings.
&nbsp;
A daughter home for the holidays, the whiff
of death beneath pine-scented candles,
on the heels of baked goods &amp; bleach,
wafting from dingy storefronts
&amp; a rancid creek that once teemed
with crayfish, children holding hands to not slip
on mossy stones in summer.
&nbsp;
The everyday residents can&rsquo;t tell me
how long the clawed ones have been coming around
surveying, cawing to each other,
soon. Vultures, flaunting
their haughty asses in our faces.
No one names the vultures
in suits holding offices, the bottom feeders
at the top. No one reclaims
this brink, beaks &amp; bullies multiplying.

Coup In Progress

&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; haunted by
wholeness&mdash;
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; bright debris sibilant
beneath skin tug-of-warring
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; with gravity, we
harvest shine
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; from the caves of
mouths &amp; crevices
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; of eyes incandescent
as we remember
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; the most massive
flares among us,
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; detonate inside
each other to hold
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; tiny supernovae
in our arms. Crushed
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; bodies craving fusion
keep us brimming
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; with enough energy
to pass on,
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; keep us lit &amp; lying
to ourselves about
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; the eventual &amp; sudden
ways we black hole&mdash;
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; it already happened, it&rsquo;s happening
anyway, to happen soon,
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; scattering all that we think
matters so much now
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; for another radiant giant to gather
then fling across galaxies
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; again&mdash;reconstituted
&amp; scorched clean,
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; new turmoil begging
from the inside out
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; to burn.

Exploded Stars

Someone else used to do this before.

Someone responsible,

someone who loved me enough

to protect me from my own filth

piling up.


But I&rsquo;m over 40 now &amp; live alone,

&amp; if I don&rsquo;t remember it&#39;s Thursday

&amp; rise with the cardinals &amp; bluejays

calling up the sun, I&rsquo;m stuck

with what&rsquo;s left rotting

for another week.


I swing my legs like anchors over the side

of the bed &amp; use the wall for leverage

to stand, shuffle to the bathroom.

In summer, I slide into a pair of shorts &amp; flip flops,

wandering room to room to collect

what no longer serves me.


I shimmy the large kitchen bag from

the steel canister, careful not to spill

what&rsquo;s inside or rip it somehow

&amp; gross myself out.

Sometimes I double bag for insurance,

tying loose ends together,

cinching it tightly for the journey.


Still combing through webs of dreams,

of spiders&rsquo; handiwork glistening above

the wheeled container on the back patio,

I drag my refuse down the driveway

past the chrysanthemums &amp; azaleas,

the huge Magnolia tree shading the living room

from Georgia&rsquo;s heat, flattening hordes

of unsuspecting ants in my path to park it

next to the mailbox for merciful elves

to take off my hands.


It is not lost on me that one day

someone responsible,

someone who loves me enough

will dispose of this worn, wrinkled

container after my spirit soars on.


I don&rsquo;t wait to say thank you

to those doing this grueling, necessary work.

But I do stand in the young, faintly lit air

for a long moment to inhale deeply,

&amp; like clockwork when he strides by,

watch the jogger&rsquo;s strong, wet back

fade over the slight rise of the road.


Kamilah Aisha Moon

Coup In Progress

Exploded Stars

Taking Out the Trash

Borderless Country

Dressing Down

Imagine

Mercy Beach

Notes on a Mass Stranding

Perfect Form

Shared Plight

Kamilah Aisha Moon

Pick Up Your Feelings (after Jazmine Sullivan)

Music from a Hometown

Coup In Progress

Exploded Stars

Taking Out the Trash

Borderless Country

Dressing Down

Imagine

Mercy Beach

Notes on a Mass Stranding

Perfect Form

Shared Plight