electricity

last night,
tesla dreamed of pearls,
and i drank a bloody mary
with all the fixings, choked
on spiced tomato scented
in sweat; one man's struggling
to pay his rent—and i never
liked feeding the energy bill
or hearing about bloodied
pigeons. last night, i thought
i heard the crackling of one
man's revolution, but it was
just the fridge left open and
money on the floor. last night,
tesla dreamed of pearls, and i
read about one man breaking
his calloused feet, sun-dried
skin turning purple—and his
wife hates when i get like this,
when i peel an orange to lick
its sticky-citrus and forget
the white shirt browning and his
eyes were black and gleaming;
she hates when i call late—but i
tell her tesla would have conceived
of a light that looks nothing like a
lemon, that looks nothing like death
in one man's weathered hand—

"you always liked bloody maries,"
she hissed, "and tesla dreamed of
pearls."