06.25.2022

Umma understands one out of three of my poems. This is why she declares I sound like a poet. I read Elizabeth Barrett Browning to her before I gave up on art, small girl of ten brimming with precious audacity not yet oxidized by sharp gust of outside air; recited Jabberwocky in a basement, sang Maya Angelou over the counter of an addressless existence. As long as we had no house, I could not be contained. But I gave up on art when I got my first room, blunt molasses space concretizer of reality, snuffer of dreams. Word became flesh and I hated mine, blunt molasses block of pound. What words could soften the thud of me hitting air?

abecedarian twenty-six letters, each one a compact unit of communication, a twisted riddle, a maze of red tape from well-lit offices; the only means of containing my sorrow now that all I have left of my brother are memories and letters.

It all comes down to an email.
You're not welcome back without a letter,
explaining your illness.

It trembles in my diaphragm.
The stretch and turn of muscle
guiding sound,

A body barely breathed
Inhale
A lizard lands
Exhale
His eyes give fire

Probably a polar bear was not a good choice
for my first attempt at whittling.
A hamster would have been simpler
and avoided the multiple leg fractures.
“Don’t worry, girl. No problem,” Mr Taylor said,

Ladies wear makeup, party dresses, and shoes.
Like to paint their nails and wear stylish updos.
A life made by having lots of material things,
along with it, the stuff that style surely brings.

Are you are uncomfortable by what you see?
I would not be surprised.
We're trained to judge a body by what it is,
and what it is not.

I still get pangs of guilt when I go by a hospital
and I remember the 3am, 7am, 11pm or Saturday 1pm calls
beckoning me to reach into myself and pull out some sort of aid for another person.
Reaching into the mess,