I rub ice cubes on my face in the morning

when it is swollen from soy sauce

or bad dreams or no sleep. The water beneath

my skin is thick like jelly, yellow & responsive

to touch. I lose track of the bones. I want the

It’s one year later & I still feel you on my shoulders,

breathing vulnerability onto my tender neck.

Two bodies wrapped in desire,

like silver paper, on Christmas.

We breathe each other & call it air.

You say survival, I say

  how everything had a name in the tender white light

To go outside I don a mask / the size of a human heart. / It’s become the law now. A turn in the wind / brings back Beijing: snow of pollen adrift, radioactive-yellow / cremation of God. In short, what you get / when too many boys love to burn.

After Jericho Brown

Like a good fisherman, I read the water.

I can’t afford to miss a ripple in the current.

            Past and future form ripples in the current,

After 《木兰辞》, first transcribed ca. 500 CE

translate: to carry from one state to another, as Enoch was translated, that is, carried to heaven without dying [1]

crest of my shoulder

fold of my thigh

my right collarbone

is stickier than my left

heather grey shirt

glommed to the small of my back

the armpits

always the armpits

advertising to all

“heat was here”

Bony fingers whipping, winding, wrinkling ‘cross my scalp

Heat near ears - don’t do it - yep, she’s scalded me

“Girl, don’t wail like that!” Popped with comb

Wince and whine, smile inside - aunties like this are rare

I stop some where waiting for you…. Yet you pretend I have gone!

I’ve scattered my ellipses like breadcrumbs in a public park.

It is 7:32 p.m.… I take refuge in your neck, my ear pressed close to your apple,

Back when I yearn to scrape you clean of seeds.

our fingers fly across black and white keys like

sparrows / rhythms of muscle memory echoing

across the table tops // inside, you are wells of blue

deeper than the Mariana Trench / clouded over

with gray brushstrokes where smears of lavender

Society’s noose fed the rope around my neck

Teaching me to hate the things I used to love about myself

Whispering that maybe I deserve to be strung up and forgotten

a cherry

a seemingly harmless

red, round fruit

you pop the whole thing

in your mouth

bite down on the

soft sweet juicy pulp

then suddenly

you reach the middle

expecting the soft flesh

you get a solid pit

This summer I took some chances while listening to Chance the Rapper because I liked the beat

But listened to Kendrick when I wanted some street poetry

Some urban poetry

From poets who grew up in suburban towns with an urban state of mind

There once was a girl named Sarah

But no one knew her name.

“Loser!” the prissy, perfect girls screeched.

The word sang in her ears.

Silence.

overland park

kansas

usa

earth

milky way



am i supposed to call this home?

i live here

but it isn’t home.



my home is delved deep within the pages of my books

constantly muttering to yourself

a constant hum in the back of your head.

carrying conversations with the walls around you

this is normal mom,

leave me alone mom,

I want to eat in my room tonight mom,

I can’t talk right now mom.

Born into the place I despise.

Growing in the green,

not seeing what could be.

Suffocating siblings,

pets galore,

always wanting more.



Colorado was my safe place,

one mountain to the next.

A little spot in the heartland,

A little spot in your heart.

Where families are created,

And legacies carry on.

Where meals are around a table,

And the front of a fridge is your trophy case.

Where names are recycled,

Warm evenings -

a slight breeze with the scent of smoked ham

and cornbread for dinner.

BROWN BODIES come out when the streetlights do

FOR FEAR OF BEING SEEN,

dancing and singing to Motown.

Turning bodies into wine

His shoulders are square;

But they are not shoulders.

They are the sharp corners

Of heavily bound volumes

Whose covers are pristine.



His hair is voluminous;

But it is not hair.

It is simply a volume

Dreams become actions

impossible becomes possible

it’s what I love to do

becoming focused on my goals

reaching those limits

passing the bar

once I get a new idea

I go with it

I don’t give up

I smile when people ask if I’m all right

But inside I’m screaming and aching

I feel as if my world is an act

I act my smiling when

I want to kick and thrash everything around me

I act my laughing when I want to cry

Shhh. Be quiet and search inside. Maybe you’ll find what makes you unique.

The rustic smell and the crisp turn of the pages let me live out my dreams. They inspire me. They are the fairy tales, and let me escape from life. Then I finish them. And I am devastated. But they complete me, and interest me.

Who feels…like nothing is impossible when you try hard enough. Like dreams are never just dreams. Like life is a blank sheet of paper and, everyone writes their own story.Who wants…To do something that goes beyond herself.

We’re just dancing,
partying,
smiling. Having

Fun

For once in our lives;
being ourselves, knowing
no one can judge us. It

Is

I wish…

I could run like an Olympian

I could draw without restrictions

I could dance like nobody is watching

I could sing as pretty as a mockingbird

I wish…

I could be a world traveler

Reading should never just be

considered an option.

A life without reading, not

understanding words, only

spots on a page, with the power

to change worlds, but they’re

dead without a voice, no meaning

till they’re read.

Full-grown Harlem lady

Eyes as black as night

If caught in a situation

Her decision would be right

Full-grown Harlem lady

Welcomes every child

If one makes a wrong decision

They will be reconciled

I hate putting my family through pain

If I could wrong my rights I would be sane

Until that point I hang my head in shame

I wish not but blame myself