Cassette tape split to
ribbons across the tile, I
was the culprit, having basked,
on repeat, to songs about
kindness and goodness,
peace, love, and joy, fruits
of the spirit, and my mom
searched the stores, to
no avail, but the message
stitched itself deep: You will
know a person’s spirit by
the fruits their presence bears.

Some years later, stained-glass
Sunday, I was appalled to
discover Judas’ trade, the
light of Jesus, thirty silvers,
then grew up to watch
the church trade him for
far less, rotten fruit in a
coat of wax, camera-ready
Christianity, oh the ache
of disillusionment.

I can pay no more heed
to the paternal counsel of
empty prophets, reveling
in the tears of the immigrant,
forgetting, ignoring, denying?
Jesus born, brown-skinned, under
shelter of a stable in a
strange land, these were
the stories, were the
stories on repeat, now spilled,
intestines along the floor,
and the fruits, far too
sour to bear.

Familiar scene, my kneecap
a crushed plum, clinging in
vain to the juices carving
rivers down my shins, strawberry
palms wince in the breeze, cleansing
sting of the water faucet,
peeling bandages open and
marveling at the miracle
of healing, indifferent to
my oversight, the body
yearns to live, the spirit
softly sings its thanks –

I traveled to Pennsylvania to
heal, and so it shall be done,
the shedding of skins I donned
to brave the concrete and its
cruelties, small reminders I
am a soft creature, sincere
and warm and open-eyed, my
return to form taking its
pound of flesh.

Show you the town we
all scoffed at, here was
the building where I roared my
first cries of heartbreak, twice
over, now a stretch of grass
where students belt the
National Anthem and laugh,
lovely the way the sun pours
honeyed color across the
sky as it leaves, I was here,
I was here, and I won’t
forget to visit this place again.

The old woman grins, her eyes
somewhere far and away, I
I wonder is she wandering,
this street, missing bricks but
drunk with the aroma of bread,
the small blue house they’d chosen,
mornings to the melody of
their daughter’s laughter, the
violet blur of some city, verdant
peace of a nameless town, homes
from the past she never had
the wherewithal to let free.

I confess, here and now, to
my crimes, funny the way
the truth always echoes, I
have made mountains
out of men unremarkable,
devoted elegies to the
scars they carved, fault
lines etched across my
hard-learned palms, I
have lain my wanting
heart into reckless hands
and winced – buried my
eyes, inkstain purple – at
its shrieks of betrayal.

This is not her best muse, muse
the masses, citing songs penned
over men whose sanctuary
left her in ruins, what romance
is there in a shelter never
shattered, far lovelier is
the indigo bruising of flesh,
we crave the ache, want
for violences, free Barabbas,
may the storm wrench and
rattle our worlds so that we
might believe in beauty.

My bones, they swell, weary
the floorboards of a place
well-loved and long-lived, I
am through with the
shadowed, seductive art of
romanticizing my pain, I
will run from any love that
only reaches for me when
I hesitate, stay out of reach
to the man only affectionate
when my voice finally breaks.

Ask yourself: Why do I
recoil from a love that insists
I am enough? Who taught
me I must compromise,
safety negotiable, pain
losing its sting when I
paint it academically?

Ask yourself: Who am I
to ignore my mammalian
want, the blood-stained
instinct to flourish in
lieu of survival?

Freedom is a pretty name
for the abandonment of
the self, but I know
to mistrust any revolution
that insists we must never
choose, be chosen, happier
without choices, gluttony
of lonelinesses, a heaping
hundred dried blood poems.

Did you hear, they’re
closing the doors to that
slick red burger joint on
fifty-second, o blurry
safe haven, where we’d
stammer our orders and
you’d paint my spirit in
bruises, pressed violets,
just to pass the minutes –

I wish, sometimes, I
didn’t remember everything,
could keep the way we
cradled one another on
those evenings of infinite
descent, but set free
the brutalities, could wander
that street in some future
without looking at that
deli, that laundromat, and
remembering it crimson.

I wonder if your fingertips
wander those scars, too,
can you confess your
crimes, even alone? Or
are you the first one
you lie to, pretty up the
picture, make villains of
your victims, and how
many crushed boys
littered the sidewalk after
I finally got up to go?

Lucky me, lucky
breaks in the bone
aching in homage to
some coming winter,
portent of gentle footsteps,
lessons etched in broken
skin in the photographs
yellowing in the unkept
drawer, an excuse for
the caught breath, the
setting everything down.

There was a last time I
sat in the backseat of my
grandmother’s car, Indiana
whipping by to the tune of
Patsy Cline as performed by,
a final time she jogged up
to scoop me into the
long hug hello, I
missed you, you always
give the best hugs.

I take an expat’s path
through the neighborhoods of
Queens, lock eyes with a cat
from the window of a Woodhaven
apartment, green eyes unblinking,
proud face wizened and
watchful, I murmur
you’ll never know it, but
we shared a city once,
he looks away, bored.

I want you to know
that deli was a noodle shop, I
really need you to believe
my grandma used to
pour her own ceramics,
cursed in capital
letters scooping the
leaves and muck from
the gutters, I’m desperate
for you to tell me
that you know I belonged
here, once, and time
didn’t rinse the stories
away, you know?

Stories spill out from
my lips, I think, so my
eyes won’t flood, in this
way, I found the power
to resurrect, everything
used to be something
else, and it was
really something.

Fresh page, I carve
a path in the shape of
a bow, footsteps in
concrete rhythm, this
I do to make home
of a new town, familiarity
with barbers and baristas,
routine a song that regulates,

the way home, a man
stomps toward me, furious,
flailing and spitting, cigarette
with a glowing tip jabbed
toward me, raise my chest,
meet his eyes, a dare, and
he goes, thundering onward,
my god, I marvel, I am
not cut out for violences,

under light’s last minutes,
same day, same sidewalk, I
spot a weary lantern fly, chilly, and
I crush it, stomach lurches as
I feel it die beneath my sole,
was it frightened, I ponder,
remorse a violet stain
pressing into my chest, a
berry crushed into napkin,
did it imagine I would be
the last thing to see it alive,

I am, suddenly, a student
of public transit, flashing numbers,
loose schedules, sidewalk
congregations huddled and
irritable, and I ride
beside a woman with
a severe expression, the
harshness of her eyes melting,
mellow, at her lit-up phone,
humans,

and what are my poems
in Pittsburgh? what hue is
my heart in a new light?
what is constant in the
story, chapter to chapter? I
should know by now, but
squint at my shorthand,
sighing, grinning, and
watch the ink seep into
parchment, another
lovely bruise to review.

Funny the way my hands
pack up the first box, sharp
contrast to the last, what
was measured, delicate,
now haphazard, throw
a picnic of takeout
wings on the stone-faced tile,
watch a show on the phone, the
small screen, the slice of life in
the crumpled up page,
crammed between chapters.

Coffee at a Pennsylvania strip
mall, wander the parking lot
universe, U-Haul waiting
at the distant edge, white,
metallic bug, buzzing, and
the cat sleeps inside its maw,
uprooted alongside everything,
grab a hat, away we go.

My legs tremble from the
hundred flights, at 3 AM
my eyes leak saltwater,
so much change, so much
loss in pursuit of gentler living,
we steady each other in
the wake, walk a new city
with familiar company.

Unexpected break of the sky,
sidewalk runner, bathed in sunshine gold
and cold, heavy thrums, what
do I call this feeling, all
the emotions watercolor, makeshift
smile running in rivulets down
my cheeks, fresh skin and
open air, the humility of beginning,
the sacredness of ending.

Along cardboard perforations, my
palms crack and fold, packing
up another life, throat
catching as I sing along,
the vinyl chorus, what to
keep, or to leave behind,
characters breathing color
in yesterday’s pages, our
very own constants, how I
ache for everything I’ve ever
set down.

You whisper time is a thief, I
swallow a sob at the frailty
of my grandmother’s hands,
insist time is no thief, but a
giver, I was born with
nothing, and it gave, it
gave, and it gives.

Outside, the train barrels by,
remember how boldly I
cursed it? Now I will miss
its cacophonous entrances,
sunlight ricocheting into the
walls of this place, here I’ve
cried, loved, hoped, healed,
thank you, I whisper in the
unwrapping, it’s really so lovely.

I’ll remember us here, young and
wanting, brave and reckless,
fresh-faced and, thankfully, so
quick to heal from the breaking
of skin, jean jacket love,
Band-aid tequila, teeming
always with life, always,
bundled with care in the
box marked forever.