Three Poems – Chace Morris

Buckshot

or what happens 
when you pour enough
of my folk into the spot right 
before shit gets lit, folk meaning hennessey-drinking
gunpowder, spot meaning 70-something of us packed 
in a basement meant for a third of that right 
when  Drake reminds us muhfuckas never loved 
us, remember? And we do, cursive our bodies 
to the bass & sign some trauma's name 
onto the tongue of a gluttonous,
sweltering, joyous 
room 
& right 
around the part 
where Drake's like “hold my phone” 
B drunkenly asks what are we really?
over the music and I can't tell if Phe says It's fear
or a sphere but either way it gets me thinking how 
all us here steeped in the forge of twerk and grind and chorus
are a kind of ammunition, unstoppable scatter
collected into firework, a black-balled
hubris, and how dangerous this joy is 
in a world so afraid of anything 
that sounds like 
backfire