i am a soup of myself when you hold me
searching for resting place where the living is easy
where the aches in me are hushed by your fingers in my righteous places please find them all
you hush with a sustenance that contorts to fit me tracing my body: a seasoned tailor
a reprieve of safety dare I say I like when you turn me into forest or a church?: choose either holy place and sing me prostrate
you named me sweetness
i burrow into your neck to soak in the moment making sure we are both…
I interned at the Schomburg Center for a summer as a senior in college. I walked to the center every day. Every day a group of Black men was sitting close to each other. I could tell they were kin. They weren’t touching but they did seem bound up together. Apart but one on top of the other all the same. Mangled together beautifully. Not sure of top from bottom.
My friends would speak to them. I let the others’ salutations handle my own. The mangled men noticed.
I think a lot about how we are all bound up together…
Sometimes I like it here. Sometimes I like it better in my head.