dollar tree

this black guy comes out of the store arguing with this white guy/ talking bout “backpack this”

& “backpack that”/ bro starts to get heated & the white guy looks a lil helpless/ but like maybe

he shouldn’t have fucked with the black dudes backpack/ cause obviously dude is pissed/

anyway the black guy starts punching on the white guy/ homies aren’t even in the same weight

class/ then the white guy drops the fruit snacks from the backpack on the corner/ & this other

homeless white dude snatches them up/ meanwhile the white guy is getting punched on by the

black guy/ & the clerk (a brown lady) comes out with her green vest tryna break up the fight/

shouting at them & then they all go back inside/ but right before/ a tesla drives by & we all

watch

poem about loving myself

me & the hairs on my chin take off our boxing gloves & cook together. while chopping rosemary

we laugh about the time i gave myself a chemical burn. tomato sauce makes the war seem petty

now. we invite over my knuckles & our laughter crackles over fire. my eyes bring my eyelashes

because they’ve been together for years & the five of us talk about films. talk about the scaly

mountains of my spine & my lopsided breasts. the stretch marks on my thighs flash lightning

above us but we add it to the slow cooked soup anyway. us, a commune. communion. a mid-

summer breaking of bread among old friends getting older, joints soon to calcify. we look to my

quads: each linear scar a story we all witnessed to & survived: how my hands used to grab for

safety pins until they ran stripes & scabs across my legs. so, after the recession of hatred, all of

us soldiers jump out & embrace over no man’s land. we all cry tears of sweat. mourn the baby

teeth, wherever they might be. welcome the metal in my spine & the rainy ache in my knees. all

the while, my legs carry me. (they carry on & on.) when the soup is ready, there is a seat at the

table for my curl pattern & the dirt on my scalp that gets trapped under my fingernails. there is a

seat at the table for my blurry vision & the way my nose runs when it’s below 60. we clear the

highway for the mole on my index finger. the table goes on & on. i get antsy as i keep an eye out

for tomorrow-me. i want to hold her hand as we say a blessing at the table, i want to hold her. &

my lungs say: yes, me, too.