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A Perichoresis
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In the South we raise a Godhead

through questioning

What city, what ward, what street?

 

Houston: a midwife, a first kiss, a celibate sky

New Orleans: my father and mother return

Baltimore: an endless bay that carries my son

 

or another way to say any port

in the storm, or that flood is a lingua franca

What block, what house, what room?

 

What you want isn’t a darker roux

What you want isn’t for me to stir

the Atlantic like a cast iron pot, making a Gulf