They call me goddess,
convincing and invincible,
armed with shield and spear.

They paint me golden,
crowned and crested helm,
child of Zeus alone.

No mother nor footprints to follow,
it is hard to know if this path is my own.
They tell me I am the daughter of wisdom.

But am I the only of the divine whose heart
is not full?

I hold the city to my chest
but have always measured loneliness
as the distance I am from myself.

They call me ****** of Athens.
Grateful for my olive tree,
they tell me I am
strong in will and mind;
no need for a lover.

But sometimes I wish Poseidon had
poisoned this city long ago,
for I cannot be Athena alone.

Black bodies
shake
like
earthquake
and the world
wakes up as the verdict
is made
and the TV screams
and the newslady
superimposed against the flames
cries,
“riot”
and black bodies
like an earthquake
swarm
and spread
like wildfire
in the streets
like tremor
like knock down buildings
in their wake
like beat black bruised down
like,
I have not lost my livelihood
        to the echo of gunshot
but I too shake
as ally
knowing
that this is our work
in a society
that has yet to accept
black bodies
as more than
just bodies
that has yet to realize
that the struggles at its margins
are its struggles
too
I am ally
to this cry
to this fight
This country will shake
until all of its bodies
have rights

the first
was a backseat freestyle
half-Catholic, half-alcoholic
rampaged my underage
with whiskey and wallet,
a secret
only until

the second
alexander the great
undefeated in battle
he knew my worth
but not its weight

the third
disguised as hymn
soaked our nest in sin
led me in a prayer every night
baptizing my body with his white

the fourth
****** me like corpse
gold cross beat collarbone
and hands like Caesar
overthrew me
into

the fifth
traced the contours
of my wrists
he was a righteous king
until
“this will feel good”
robbed me of
my womanhood

the sixth
looked at me
like I was the sky over Judah
vowed to be loyal
crowned me royal
then stormed my capital
at dusk

the seventh
rough and
in Hebrew tongue
“this is the first time
i’ve done this sober
in awhile”

the eighth
graced me
with misogynist faith
made me kneel
until my knees
were just bruises
on his floorboards

the ninth
warrior’d his way
into my walls
a Trojan prince
who could’ve cared
less about the outcome
of a broken one

these are
the nine good men
who i let hero-storm
my temple with their chivalry
inside-out my worth
into bible verse
crucified by ignorant white

i actually believed by some light or reason
that a man might cleanse me of my demons

i tried to love each of them
like i’d never known broken
tried to marry my wounds
into Magdalene

moaning a beggar’s cry:
treat me like new, brand new!
untouched, like virtue
us, we, come together are purity!

but they had all been in search of their sin
from the beginning
nine worthies
who made the rules
only so they could know where to
break them

all religious

all deemed / worthy
praised / King
self-proclaimed / God

I am the bell
who tolls for No One
the one you want so wholly
to toll for you –
to drum your inners
and let you know you’re running late
for work today.

I am made of cast iron
and cast away
but mostly string –
the thick kind of string
that twists together
and makes warm things.

I am caged the same way I am bird
which is to say
I am neither;
my wanderlust
makes me trust wings
who are not ready
to be wings.

But I am woman,
not metaphor.
So forget all that.

On Saturdays,
we rise with the sun.
I am dressed in my best dress,
next to you in tattered tee.

We pack into the Jeep:
ma and her girl, father and his son.
With the infinite Pacific on our right,
we speed down Route 1.
You ride shotgun,
as light spilling over the horizon
knocks salty sleep from our eyes.

You win the teddy bear prize
for sending the lead puck the highest
with your Carnivàle mallet—
I didn’t get to try,
because Dad said my dress
was too white.

In the early hours of the night,
a couple on the street stops and beams,
saying we are a family
that ought to be in the magazines.
(It will take me many years
to understand what this means.)

After pork and baked beans,
mom buys me ice cream
and we window-shop
while you guys fish off the dock
and talk about things
that mom and I find silly.
When we reconvene,
it is time to leave.

You sit with me in the back seat,
and as I nod into sleep,
I see Dad pat your knee,
gifting you with a smile—
one that he has never given me.

the snow is a white wall against my kitchen window
and I refuse to leave the apartment
I call my mom who says she is tired of my *******—
the third person this week to tell me to Grow Up
as though this is some easy thing

I decide to take the blue line
all the way to Wonderland
not knowing what or where Wonderland is
just wanting to chase something

you strum August's boxstrings with so much confidence
I begin to wonder if you’ve lived this life before
screaming about war like a madman
you tell stories about Gjakova crying in snowfall

I am the last one on the train
Wonderland—the last stop
on the train
it's getting dark out
the man on the intercom says to get off
so I do

the last time I saw you
I told you you were ******* crazy
and all you could say was “you too”
but I believed you
because that’s what I do

Wonderland is circus tent dark
and littered with catcalls
the racetrack air smokes a cigarette and cackles
as February buttons her blouse
I walk towards the waves
looking for a friendly face

but there is no moon shining tonight
the sea is alone
somehow she still finds a color to cling to
perhaps she has learned to reflect upon herself

I take the train home
it is snowing again
and I am tired of your *******
I don’t want you anymore

there is no sun shining today,
but somehow the ocean still finds a color to cling to--
a muddy blue.
perhaps it is reflecting on itself.

you taught me that blue
is the warmest shade of lonely,
and that the blues
can cure just about anything,
but feeling sorry for yourself
will only make you more sorry.

there are entire days that i spend
thinking only of you,
and your words;
wishing
and missing coffee kisses in the train station.
in the train station,
you said “jump in my suitcase."
you were kidding.
i would have.

i’m too young for “impossible” to be so easy to pronounce;
rolls from my lips like native tongue,
i’m too young to be heartbroken already.
my spirit shouldn’t deflate this easy.
why did fate let me love you so easily?

it isn’t summer anymore,
but it isn’t fall yet either.
i pray that my heart will turn with the seasons,
and that my tears will fall away with the leaves.

i used to believe that loneliness was only
the distance you are from yourself.
i didn’t think anyone else could play a factor.
but bleeding and boneshed
in the deepest bed of hurt i have ever lay,
i have begun to measure loneliness as the distance i am from you.
rather, the distance i am from home.