
at least I give you transparency.
even when I’m moping, I’m dancing
in songs of satin
rippling with sob and shimmering
deep bright with
the sky’s opacity.
I am combusting: a
flood of recourse and
you are
drowning, immersed
in capillaries bursting with crisis
and then immediate clarity.
my hands let go of the
flood I’m cradling.
you watch me move
like a snake across your
ceiling draped in shifting
constellations
you have no choice but to
memorize and I’m wearing
the crescent as a crown and
your ears like a gown
and someone else is full of warnings
gutting rabbits
in the garden.
each night I go to God and ask
for favor.
in the morning, I remember
one line.
I hand them back their most
prized possession:
a page, one line;
one at a time
wrapped in
flakes of
shrimp and you
told me you were
STARVING.
“aquarium”
“writing poetry is my way of celebrating with the world that
i did not commit suicide the night before.”
–alice walker
first, convince them you’re a witch.
- Big picture: I don’t belong anywhere.
- Small picture: Buy bed.
January 5, 2014 and we
have arrived in
North Philadelphia.
“hypothymia”


