Hanif Abdurraqib

so the poem begins

with old grief again at my neck.

A person only gets to be called a widow once,

and then they are simply lonely. The bluest period.

If your hate could be turned into electricity, it would light up the whole world.

i tell my boys there is a reason songs from the ’90s are having a revival & it’s because the heart & tongue are the muscles with the most irresistible histories & i’m kind of buzzed

it is a blessing to know someone wants a funeral for you.

probably when there is a song you can’t remember them living inside of anymore

I suppose we all become what we resemble most

I, too, dress for the hell I want & not the hell that is most likely coming

everybody wanna make soul but don’t nobody wanna chew a hole through the night small enough for a bullet to pass through & pull each of their lovers into it.

she will carry you in her teeth to the river & hold you down until you become either holy or dead.