i am still of it
this world
full of sorrows

i trace the lines back
from my fingertips
to my heart

the feelings all start with distinction
such unique purpose
only to pool and to pulse together

and i want to un-utter
certain passions
in my cellular structure

i taste on my tongue
her absent kiss,
the three dead names i always called him,
the wet hitch of goodbye
as that failed father enters his prison,
the acidic bite in detroit
gasping as hands tighten at her neck
and they bruise her soil,
and the sharp raging bitter
of gaza
my god, some god, somebody…

can i blame it on the moon
she thinks we are hers
because we are water
with her ink on our spines

can i blame it on mercury
patterning fuckery
is this envy or legacy,
all this human catastrophe

can i recall the prophet
who spoke of joy and sorrow
carving out spaces
from each other’s bodies

why don’t we find out
there is no place outside ourselves
to put this daunting sorrow
while we breath we are still of it

what is the science
for this bent over grief
crying us to sleep
in this solitary cosmos

can i still wonder
feel wonder
when i am still of it

…

when my breath stops
flood me with joy
i feel room for oceans
here in my veins