Hanif Willis-Abdurraqib

Ginuwine - Pony

or: what it is to ride or be ridden

to have a spine bend under the weight of what you carry

to sit atop what will take you to the promised land

by promised I mean any land that is untouched

and precious enough to be stolen a thrashing and noisy child

ripped from the fingers of its only mother

what it is to ride fast on the back of something hungry and claim whatever meets your arrival

run your tongue across anything naked and name it conquered

what it is to have your sweat plant a flag in new earth

I claim this land in the name of what exits the skin after it has had its fill of our reckless want

everything we hold inside of us always ruining a good set of sheets

or a good pair of pants

or a family

or a whole country

.

the darkness is spreading earlier and earlier. I have stopped looking for myself in pictures. I ask my therapist: if I cannot see my hands how will anyone know to love me. he tells me that it is best to not speak of what happens at night. I do not speak in winter. I watch the news. I think about what picture they would use if I died. it is a miracle babies are born at all. I think a baby is what happens when you get tired of leaving notes on someone’s nightstand before they wake up. if men could carry babies we would watch childbirth on ESPN. we would place bets on it. the world is on fire again but I’m not alone this time. I just want to touch someone who thinks of me while their coffee cools. I just want to kiss a mouth that has grown my name inside. I just want to make good use of all this nighttime.  instead I make lists of everything outside that can kill me. the organic market next door is at the top. how much is too much to ask for nourishment. take what is left of my hands. give them back when the sun comes.