another protest
october sun in knoxville
chilly but
the leaves still shake green
krutch park,
patches of grass brim with bodies
tent *****, occupying
you and I
munch on six dollar subs
after the general assembly
crisp air carrying
the taste of spring
that same elusive flavor
which rolled on the tongue
during Arab Spring. but I
remember
how that ended.

another protest
riots
reading Stonewall
post-MLK assassination
at the Gandhi-King conference
I wonder why there're no children,
just adults, tired,
all their experience
cloistered
in empty classrooms and powerpoints.

another protest,
hands up
blocking intersections
my phone buzzes
but I can’t hear it
"why are you wasting your time?"
he growls later.

another protest,
another black body.
extra credit in the sixth grade
nearly failing English -
"write about Jim Crow" -
I lost myself
counting names:
oppression prefers continuity.

now,
far from home,
too far,
fifty dollars bail
still sounds too paltry
but there’s little left now.
twitter feeds are burning buildings
pepperspray and milk.
mouth dry, I watch,
I count the names again,
I hope tomorrow we won’t need
another protest.

she handles memories like a crime scene,
each shared photograph shows
a clue -
oil stains on armchairs, misplaced magazines
she’d mistake a sob of despair
for laughter,
love for pity.
every remembrance she mars with red ink,
as if to tell her side of a story
that never existed.

wind blistered water
stars collapse into redwood
love the outer ring

my soles are copper nearly
black, pudgy and blistering
heels cracked from heat
and hateful words,
my hands aren’t much better.
I soak them with epsom salts and tears
some nights I ask the sky,
why have you given me empathy -
what can I do with it
in a country soaked in blood?

we tried to bury the dead
clawing at memories
hard as beet roots,
garnet colocasia,
rotting,
manicured nails in caked film,
dirt and violet water
whimper séance spells
at our ankles -

I tried to listen
but did not understand -

were we burying sorrow,
or digging it up?

I hide
beneath the rock
like a salamander
clings to streamside
stones
once I held one
against my thumb,
on my palm it squirmed
the universe in its veins
and without a word
I returned it home
to moss green and rain-guzzling
grass,
my three-year-old
white Nike’s flooded and cracked
mud seeping through the soles.

my body is a vault
steel bars ribs bared
lungs press against hot bone
your name a password
encrypted
on every vein and even
my muscles remember
every depression in your thumbprint
but even that isn’t enough
to unlock
what builds within me.

hands wring
cold sweat,
dry tongue runs
along teeth
each lap a question,
an anxiety
to tell you,
softly, my thoughts.
should lovers swim
such a wide chasm
of thought? finger tips
barely brush the abyss
but then I think
about the prophet
palms clammy
feverish reciting
each word of his explanation
wondering if even his wife
would think him mad.
perhaps stressed divides
can still be bridges.

For want of you,
I shall not shy away
from even the crumbs
on your fingertips
even a single speck of
dust
if it brushes against your tenderness
is as sweet as nectar
against my lips

don’t wear anything
too long
too short,
cross your legs
try to look
ladylike -
smile, don’t fight
ask others what they need
or stay silent but
keep smiling.
walk softly, sway
gracefully, carry
a world your crown
cook ambitiously,
daily,
clean well
work comes after
the house and home,
so do hobbies -
sewing is a nice one,
when you find the time,
between peeling garlic and
scrubbing the basin,
won’t you fix that button
on your shirt?
your hair, too,
should be styled
even simply,
daily
for everyone.
don’t say you’re tired,
we all are tired,
but you’ve got to follow
every last rule.
and when you’re finished
take a picture and tag yourself
smiling,
folks want to know
you’re happy about it.

some days
I spring to life at dawn
well-oiled and eager I
glide on tiles as if made
of sunflowers

and other
I drag my body
from the sheets
mumble poems,
sweet nothings dull crayons
with which I color the gray space.

looking back
we were a myth
children,
playing marbles in the street,
speaking softly as if
words could build a marriage.

aging is forgetting
bitten pencils sharpened
to shavings,
traded my HB2 for a B6
admired charcoal black lines.
paint tubes plastered shut
words tumble out on
any old scrap,
memories dashed against
trash heaps
maybe, burnt in bonfires
all those joys, tragedies
cradled in the wind,
carried to someone
who might be young enough to remember.

in this scorched, sun-baked season
we prayed for rain
and when it came
summer heat blazed
as if blooming,
polyester chaffed against
cotton, against skin sticky.
we filled our teacups with humidity
and decided the earth
knew itself better
than we.

I know my god,
I see him in your eyes
I feel his lips on my ear
Like rain on sand
I can’t forget his power,
A fire that does not burn
But it brings life to the ashes

the day you left
our water went, too
jugaad,
barren bore well,
too many bodies in one building,
I count excuses, listen
for spouts
faucet handles twisted
empty mouths
gape black.

even our filter-
empty
except for salt deposits
nibbling at the plastic.
it’ll take three days,
they said,
for it to be fixed.
a tanker will come.

lips dry, cracked
at the seams,
buckets half filled,
teal paint peeling
the water from the corner shop,
more bitter than Marah’s,
but
I had no power to make it sweet.

I asked your vanished shadow
for at least a little rain
and in the midst of summer,
I saw two clouds,
white pockets heavy
with rain
but they went to the mountains.

at dusk
a lone tanker
rusted red
crawled up our street
spilled
half its hold
on splintered pavement.
when it departs
a shallow spurt from the faucets
fill the flat with
gargles and whines,
a single drop
lands on my palm.

I wish I had
more memories of us
beaded like pearls
on a red string of fate
and circumstance,
more days
of spontaneous dusk walks,
skipping school to
create worlds far more beautiful
than this one,
more hours
nibbling on leftovers
or splurging on a mid-day meal
laughing as you drop
some hot sauce on your collar,
more minutes
in restive silence
lounging on plaid sofa
a book on your chest,
our hands holding each other
like we have all the time in the world.