dirt.

i saw the greatest femmes of my generation

trespassing in rancid trash-struck streets,

looking for scrap love in overturned garbage cans,

fighting dogs to gnaw down on worn-out bones,

sleeping wrapped in plastic tarps and fiberglass,

watching with one eye upon the roaming

—and the other upon the sparrows.

i saw them break teeth for tampons,

pissing in discarded disposable underwear,

ejaculating blood in donated dirty sheets,

dripping with poison from their tongues.

in any apocalypse, the femmes survive—

those who turn filth into fortresses,

who till necrosol into victory,

and those who already know

how to scent out rotting men.