HAYES, Terrance

American Sonnet for Wanda C.

Who I know knows why all those lush-boned worn-out girls are

Whooping at where the moon should be, an eyelid clamped

On its lightness. Nobody sees her without the hoops firing in her

Ears because nobody sees. Tattooed across her chest she claims

Is BRING ME TO WHERE MY BLOOD RUNS and I want that to be here

Where I am her son, pent in blackness and turning the night's calm

Loose and letting the same blood fire through me. In her bomb hair:

Shells full of thunder; in her mouth: the fingers of some calamity,

Somebody foolish enough to love her foolishly. Those who could hear

No music weren't listening—and when I say it, it's like claiming

She's an elegy. It rhymes, because of her, with effigy. Because of her,

If there is no smoke, there is no party. I think of you, Miss C