Countries away,
imperial armies march on
toward erasures: lands, babies,
freedoms, humanity.
All I’ve known is too much violence –
the world’s hands and mine –
that guilt is onion gripping
my knife fingers when I’m not dying
a little with those who are.
But perhaps the dead are honored too in small mercies:
freshly caught maya-maya swimming
with valproic in my belly,
a flirty message to a Bumble date,
a forbidden cave, coconut fronds
singing amid morning’s muteness,
a prayer 22 years after I killed my light.
Thank god the only thing buried today
were my soles in Anda’s hourglass sand.
The only knot I’m tying is my shoes
sashaying into a room to
wake my daughter. Hey,
it’s a nice sunny day out.
Let’s go for a dip.
This piece was first published in Anti-Heroic Chic on December 3, 2024.
