I guess I’m reluctant to confess this shit
The one about the white hitman who coaxed me into his bed with some liberation fantasy
Papers I couldn’t read or wouldn’t and left me for dead when it got too good
They took him to the madhouse to treat his fever Took me for a barn owl
And caught our offspring on a raggedy stack beside articulate livestock By Black Spring
We had Lena Horne and I was nearly a doctor to keep telling inklings and kindling
Crazy little me Beautiful me exuberant about my grief healing everybody but daylight
