Maia Huddleston
in the backyard
our labias hang out to dry, clothespinned at the clit
the fireworks bloom,
a chip bag pops in the school cafe,
a display of cheap balloons
we go back to the suburbs, but the drought has killed all the grass.
we drive through gated neighborhoods with Black lawns.
we pay for filtered water
to sprinkle across the zinnias
but the sirens don’t stop singing anymore,
a constant lullaby
to put our minds and hands to sleep