poetry

superman

how much can I get
for Superman’s tears
they slide easily
down cheekbones
that belong
on Mt Rushmore

he talks tenderly
about an old love
who now lives with
another man
in St Louis

he refuses to go to auditions
smelling like the street
he calls me Lois Lane and
proposes to me
once a week

no one is thinking about
james baldwin anymore
the weight of Superman’s
tears a body
strapped to our
backs

we offer him handfuls of
freshly picked flowers
the tears of a king
a garden in bloom

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