A Gram of &s form is based on the daily word game found in the puzzle section of many syndicated newspapers. Each line ends with one of the eleven words derived from the title word.
—Terrance Hayes, Hip Logic.
That’s laughter you said, that’s sand, glass, lace,
fragile as bubbles, clean and comely. That’s an omen
you said, a black raven, alone, crying for home.
That’s grace you said, you wear as a halo,
pungent as lemon, a holy
lament that is deep as a honeyed ache.
That is cello moan, you said, only
an echo of an incantation, a call
from your lonely hymnal,
a sweet calm
that is ocean, your final amen.
The Queen’s Executioner
I long for a night without dream’s
pooled blood seeping through the cracks.
Young Mary clutches the stair rail up to the pine planks.
A flammable wheeze bloats my windpipe.
Pooled blood on pine planks flows through the cracks
of her skull, through her hair the color of ink,
her windpipe thistles soundlessly.
Some nights I place my own chin on the stone’s notched groove,
see the ebony glow of her hair set on fire by the sun,
her head scuttling into the basket like a heavy crab.
The death axe is as great a weight as the notched stone
which leaves grit between my teeth.
Her heavy skull thuds in the basket,
eyes blind, no longer flicker gold.
I grit my teeth
gaze at a raven through my mask,
a pale flickering over my one blind eye.
Even now I feel a catch in my throat watching it clutch
the rail, a vision faint through night’s dark mask.
I long for a night without dreams.
Noah is in a frenzy reminding me
the rains are coming how distant he is
huddled in his great apostrophe I have been sent out
to collect seed pods from outrageous fling-bushes
I have sewn quilted pouches into my dress and
coat as has Naomi my companion
out voluptuous pockets full
at night my body transcends into
dandelion rain deer whale pods that populate
roots expand through the softening
I breathe under water riding each bubble to the surface
of whales shimmering with bees
swim in warm waters
wanting to ride the incandescent lust of falling
I long for fin claw the furred and tender arms of the tiger
as I nestle into Naomi each night transformed
into raven’s sensuous flight I know the raven’s eye
edged and keen I need to own it