she still carries papers that lie about her
talk smack about her to her coworkers
drag her in the groupchat
over petty high school shit
weary, sick with lamenting
sick with geologic ages of trauma
knowing that all her love and all her fury
can fall as dust before some man
with a store-bought hammer
a pair of Ray-Ban Metas
and oceans of grievance
where a mother’s love should be
look at her; bare neck
in backless dress exposed
to a son’s animus
soaked and choking in sorrow
the kind of anticipatory grief
made possible by funding from
The Heritage Foundation
and a lifetime of knowing
that anything that makes this body
this fruit tree of longing in the shape of a girl
into something that may yet bear harvest
can be taken, and burned, and salted
we grow up exhausted by savagery
our chests and hands crumpling, our eyes
dimming until the only way out of the dark
is to stop our own hearts
the hate this world has for us is a muscle
the size of some tacky Florida resort
but it atrophies in the light of the moon
and will one day be broken by the sea
tonight we dip early before intermission
from the theater of our dying. we hold our own lives;
our loves, and our worries, our heart emojis and our breakup texts
the text we send with the first selfie
the day we started hormones, and the text
we send to our chosen sister
to let her know we got home,
against all odds, safe. all I am is
girl. I am small, a shaking hand beneath the waves
I am forty-three years of witness that
love will change your life
but will change nothing else
I write because I can’t run fast enough
because I can tell you the color
of my sister’s bright eyes
without even thinking. (green.)
I write because I text my girl late
to make sure she got home safe
I write
because she answered me
