i'm 9 in nairobi
playing foosball with a masai man
whose lip and earlobe
(both well-stretched)
bounce against his face,
he hangs lip over nose,
ears over ears,
we play on

funny, those kinds of scars
began with young women,
east african, who
fearing ****
and kidnap
from the north,
cut holes
in lip, in earlobe,
lifted skin of stomach
to slice smooth turtleshell shapes,
rubbed camel dung in wounds for better

scars,
which meant:
resistance, meant:
freedom, meant:
don't take me away,
don't steal my life.
funny
those scars
mean beauty now.
funny, these scars
on my wrist, funny how
much i love life now.
funny scars

i can't dive right in anymore-
i gave up baby steps
when i thought life
was about taking chances,
but i take it back

i can't do this anymore

i need somebody to guide me slowly
so i don't choke,
because i'm terrified of drowning now
after all the times i've been
held under for too long

(thank you for knowing this
and keeping me afloat)

we stole dandelions from the fields
like hard-time criminals
and watched as they melted
in the palms of our hands--

i should have realized it was a
perfect euphemism
for the months to follow.

attraction is just
a synthetic reaction,
but we've got
*chemistry

and, i swear
nobody could have
                      saved her
that day, she was a victim
    to graffiti and
       road signs.

you* are my daisy
by the c h a i n l i n k
fence.