Pyrrhic upon turning 24
My Moscow is accommodating tonight -

so much so
that the pyrrhic
chanting elopes
from the windowsills
with frost-kissed lips;

it makes its way across a wall,
frozen slabs, or a cats tail
singed by a signal fire.

At night,
in my Moscow
I dream of Virgilian ships
slipping along the ledge of my tongue;

teeth tight as torturous
rocks abate, all be it, for the
wind whistle of my hungry & angry breath.

I told myself
I would not
be here forever,

yet, those hitherto
sectarianisms broker
loose bombs - my hands
turning into cold motifs

often times saying goodbye -

a women messaging her breasts
to make a child come,

that child, now another women,
lying face down in a bed
trying to remember what the
weight of solidity felt like,

like solidarity,
a dead sisterhood,

a deader womanhood;
hungry from October
in Moscow

with its yesteryear czarism
fasting with a politicized
Romeo slashing skylines
into portraits of revolutions,
and I cannot paint his eyelids
into stars,

only he can do that

I'm battling my own ghost-self,
while bearing his own ghost-child.