I’m done spitting on your face
and on my way
to pick up a bag of cutlery and dishes
for our house from the front porch
of a stranger’s
when I stop to admire the cracks
in the side of the building.
the wall is coral, faded but still
garish and stands out; it’s
this building has no doors and
one broken window.
these defects in the painted halls
lining my new city catch my
eye each time I run an errand
and I pay my respect in
photographs, stopping at each one.
trying to remember how the boulders
haunted too; how the ocean felt
on my wasted ankles at gloaming when I guzzled
vodka Big Gulps and watched the
ghost crabs roam the bay.
watched myself dissolve into
the bits of me and can I remember
how the sunset looked draped over both tide and
hold two things at once
how it feels to lose several
small countries you claimed.
all I see are metaphors
and I’m intruded.
these overcoats that rot
without dismay hold space;
there is natural beauty
here but it shines brightest in demise.
these bricks are painted to distract from
its true inability to keep a home
the way men have held me,
touched with their claws,
I cracked I only see them in their
I snap a picture of the edge of the broken
glass pane and the beginning of
the paint peeling into
white, the fissure.
I trace my finger
over a chip and watch
how they left me.