Little Rock
My friend’s friends, his new line brothers,
are huddled in the kitchen, taking turns
burning an ancient alphabet into their biceps,
along their lower legs, into their chests.
They howl, licking their chops, relaying
a single bottle and a branding iron
like twin batons. Decoupled from livestock,
or the institution of slavery, it’s explained
to me as the ultimate act of devotion,
of fidelity, the best illustration of what
it looks like to love.