When Papa told me to fix this
(broken window)
before the glass cuts me, I replied,
“there are loves that ****.”

He watches me watch the cracks
and knows that I am     thinking of you

again, I ***** my hands in your garden soil against his wishes.

O’ fruit! another injection from your tree,
and I stumble beneath thee (and thy) kisses.

Blood seeps, unknown; a stranger on my skin.

                                                          ­         You know what they say about women
                                                                ­   who don’t belong anywhere they’ve
been.