Rumpus Original Poetry: Four Poems by Micky Bayonne





once in the splendor of death, we magnify his name  

two of each for everyone.  one for me &    for me too.    each one      sliced long ways      head to tail.   the summer  turn twenty-five    a vow to only wear white   this is not good,  look in the camera    not good at all.  we move   more   light.      the six sexes diverge  when   faced with a viewer.        ratings rid the    sins of   youth.        everything   ruined.      dresses ill-fit.         the color nine .    hark hear    angels singing. bark bare its bone.   bright, already     bright, & getting brighter   



stouthearted & tomorrow

could bring the joy inconceivable
or the slide of a rock down
mountain face  or the very
closeness of a new god. i’ve
thought a long time we need a new
one. to paste the clay to mold, with
useful hands and no ornaments.  
what makes a man is his hands, not his cock.  the new god will not
have a cock.                     will not make babies.                     is
fiscally conservative                     with  strong platform on climate
                    change and radical ideas about overpopulation. for
example, killing a lamb or biting a tongue. i build a temple for the
house of our lord while sleeping. paganism is a marketplace. 

everyday an option. every night an opinion. every god a man’s
man or a  real man or a hard-working-gun-toting-bitch-slapping
man.  a man who will use blood to build or blood to build or build
to blood





Sometimes I let some fresh ears fret me. 
Let ill mother let me. Let the simmer-self still lit. 
Sometimes I feel the fistless storm sit, mother me
of its tit. I mite kill the elk to see. I mite miss. 
Sometimes I feel like a slick slit of silt. Lest I
stress, I omit, the shimmer of the milk! Sometimes
I shame the eel for its ilk. I steal the mist to stall
the rest. Roll the  heel of the mess. I mite skim a
tree, loose a selfish risk,  form from fish a self that
fits. Oh! 
Sometimes I feel like a motherless!  





Stay Black & Die 

Me and Jay watch the river rise over the levy, while laughing
about spring and cum. Then walk on the train tracks holding 

hands. People stay together all the time. We list names of
people from high school that  are dead. Mourn them by 

pressing our fingertips together. We need all our hands to
count. This is sick, I say. The moment of great suffering. 

When white people know our names but not our faces. When
my hair tangles in her earring. When my ex shows us a box of 

puppies abandoned by their mother. He lets us feed one milk 
with a syringe. I am not sure they should eat this; everything 

has to eat something. I doubt my position as an Apex
predator, yet I am slipping cow milk into  a dog mouth. We 

dance to ABBA in his dirty bedroom. I think about fucking out
of habit. My body is a tarp with wind blowing through; 

nothing inside me is safe. Believe me, I tried to change. But
my feet do this when they walk and unless I lay down,

that is how this will be. For a long time, I was angry but now 
it’s like whatever. If I could be a self myself loved, I would 

have all the strength and then some. I asked my grandma what
I could do to make her happy. She told me the most we can 

hope for is to stay black and die. Seems like most things are
going according to plan. 




Author photo by Nora Claire Miller

Micky Bayonne is an artist and educator from Louisiana. They earned an MFA in poetry from the Iowa Writers Workshop. In 2018, Micky received the Truman Capote Fellowship. Micky is the former Provost Visiting Writer in Poetry at the University of Iowa. They currently live in Western Massachusetts. More from this author →