Sandra Beasley

The trees cup light in their low branches.
The sidewalks are dying. 
I am walking from pharmacy to pharmacy.
I pull bits of teeth from my mouth. 
I pull concrete from my mouth.
Ahead, another green cross is winking.
The song in my mouth is dying.
The name in my mouth is not my name.
The trees cup pharmacies in their branches.
I offer the sidewalk a tourniquet.
I pull the knot from my mouth.
I tighten the truth with my hands.
The trees thank me for stopping.
A green cross turns away, embarrassed.
Here, let me hold that blood for you:
I need something to do with my hands.
Here, will you hold this name for me?
I need something to do with my mouth.