Births

The earth is pushed in a rusty wheelchair.
The sun is suffering from dementia,
Hiding her face because she cannot understand it.
She was birthed in a dusty closet’s bucket,
Suckled by killers who invented this world.
Made blueprints on the backs of their lovers.
Outlined crosses with the ends of their fingers.
A blackbird cawing between your legs
Is, then, either my child or a dictator, or both.
The night is my twin who
Never was born,
And yet we took the same name.