American Sonnets for My Past and Future Assassin

by Terrance Hayes

I was raised By a beautiful man. I loved his grasp of time. My mother shaped my grasp of space.

I lock you in a form that is part music box, part meat Grinder to separate the song of the bird from the bone.

When the wound Is deep, the healing is heroic.

I carry money bearing The face of my assassins. I’m good company And pretty fun for a little while. A whirlwind, I tend to repeat my mistakes.

It was discovered the best way to combat Sadness was to make your sadness a door.

Poor, ragged Heart, blind, savage Heart, I’ve almost grown tired of talking to you.