Abstracts
At the store, I cried by the lobsters, a loose child,
moved by a cruel tank of glass walls and salt.
Too often, too often, I met the same wall:
the cut-apart district with houses, untouched,
the words that fly-out and splat, unheard,
the dinner guest leaving early, unloved.
I knew we were not made for this;
I knew our bodies could not enclose us.
With a head stuffed-full of dirt and desire,
I found dreams sprout best in the dark:
long Friday nights on a lonely, green street,
and a dim living room surging with song—
I grew older, my head grew thick with dreams.
I said, “Where must I offer my branch, my self?”
And like some bird, dumb to horror but shining,
I seize the real, real thing, that swings
in melodies of bass and clashing race
on scorched, city dance floors where
again, I touched the wall: all genetic, final.
Here, skin tones don’t crumble like concrete.
“In this life, no strawberry-sweet strangers?
Hell, thoughts like this are only for hell!”
My feet ached from not saving the world.
But still, my branch did cross somewhere
far into distant custom and spice rewind
two years, to a girl, living two streets down.
My branch there, now our love here
with her bloodline of ancient law, that writes:
“Return to the root of the root of yourself.”
But they say my love’s fighting for the other side.
And I find my root reaching, peeking
somewhere close to mother and memory.
How much to guard, how much to lose?
It is sung, “All is fair in love and war.”
I got my gloves and sanitizer handy;
still, I find the other side full, the other air bright.
Now, dear lobsters, I too, preach the habit:
take what’s shared, breathe what’s given, don’t ask.
As the days lapse, we too, take from others.
I leave only this: an open mind, and thought.
