I find this girl with frizzy hair whose braids play frames on dark skin fair.
Who scraps stuffed animals and loves scruff scraps.
Whose #1 Karaoke song meant:
'you can't use her phone' (it's at 0%)
who suits jumpsuits and rubber boots that jump up, in front, and on, to you.
who loses thoughts in white
spaces between black lines braided, that
play between imagined frames, that
frame the world in unspoken ways, that
in gentle quiet movements make,
dark seem fair. I find the girl with black lipstick
whose soft eyes capture light, and shining lift,
you up high enough to realize
that it's your own skin glowing.
And if could be put at fault, for hands slightly cold to the touch --
it's that their mirrored surface has been trained to reflect all light back --
except, of course, for certain scraps
of once silver skin now painted black, warm enough
to keep on giving. And giving.
I find this girl of joy and pain,
whose each emotion fairly weighs
whose shadow visits unannounced to
bend and stretch the strands of light that start
to cast intricate patterns on my heart:
whose rubber boots jump in front
of you and twerk you into a corner
whose laugh pulls hooks
from the edges of your mouth
whose touch heals mental wounds
whose warmth I miss so much
whose image alone dopamine induces
whose kiss is again on my lips
who cooks with kohlrabi and Berbere.
I find this girl in the groggy eyes that confirm the morning,
in fingers driving through wet hair
in fleeting memories of dreams where something you long-
long to remember recedes into the night
and in every kindness on the commute, they sing her name
I hope I find this girl today.
