i will stop writing poetry like a eulogy when you start making me feel alive

the women on my father's side of the family are quiet
they are traditionalists, rooted in the ways of the women who came before them
i have watched them shrink before the voices of men
wilting like flowers do when the nights are longer than expected
it is not their fault
they have not been taught any differently
the women on my father's side of the family are small
delicate bones and feet made for tip toeing around hushed rooms
voices made for apologizing for things that they can not control
their lineage traces its way back through generations
they have shaky hands, yet have mastered the art of threading needles
i watch them, and something tugs at my heart, but i do not know why
i fear it is pity

the women on my mother's side of the family are loud
they have laughs that carry like the notes of a symphony
bold and unapologetic, sure footed in its own presence
they are the center of attention
at times the center of gravity as well
the women on my mother's side of the family are tall
they take up space and are not ashamed of it
sometimes it is called brashness
i always saw it as courage
they taught me how to sleep in on sundays and how to walk like i am
not afraid and how to hold my keys in between my fingers like daggers
i watch them, and something tugs at my heart, but i do not know why
i fear it is because i do not know if i will ever be able to be like them

you see, i am equal parts one as i am the other
as much as i would like to be brazen and unafraid
i cannot forget the reflexes inherited  
these things cannot be unlearned
they have been ingrained into hollow bones
however, if this is true, it must also be true that somewhere beneath this lies the kind of fearlessness that dances on tables and is not afraid of who watches
i have seen this courage in my mother, and her mother, and the women before them
one day i will steady these shaky hands and find that courage
until then i tip toe around hushed rooms and apologize for things that i cannot control
i am equal parts one as i am the other

there are hidden constellations in your skin
Andromeda shines in the curve of your wrists
while Ursa Major and Ursa Minor dance in the shadows of your eyelashes

neither one of us knows how to be angry quietly
we learned that from our parents
when things got bad it was hurricanes in the living room
or the front seat of your car
but when things were good it was magic
because neither one of us knows how to love quietly either
we learned that from each other

you are a star in a street-lamp sky burning fiercely amidst the dull monotony
in every universe we find each other
in every life i look up & see your light
& i smile
for i have been here before

it’s been a while since i’ve written poetry.
a lot has changed and i feel very different now. the weight of my own name has settled better on my tongue. summer is beginning and they say it’s going to be a hot one, an indian summer stretching long into the autumn months, unexpected but not unwelcome. an old friend saying goodbye one last time. the warmth with last until i myself have to say goodbye one last time. right now time moves slow under the heat like a fly in amber, sticky saccharine stretching between its wings. i know better than to trust this lethargic flow of heartbeats. if i do, the end will sneak up on me, creeping in the shadows of the places that are too dark to see into. i try to ignore these places. i’m not sure i know how to be alone and i do not know how i will fare after these last few warm months of childhood. i get the feeling that i am leaving something behind.