(for coloreds only)

we are sequestered in the balcony, a nest
of blackbirds, pecking kettle corn. you call
me your candy apple as sweat rolls down
the long, cool necks of our colas. in the dark,

i can hear the wiry whisk of your beard, thin
fingers flitting absently against your chin, the
futile whir of fans. onscreen, a phonograph
churns Billie’s gravelly alto upward. as it wafts
toward the rafters, you turn and whisper:

junkies have the most beautiful voices.

i watch, as filmic light softens the lines
of your face, and fleetingly forget integration.