Sous chef

They have to go.  – Trump


This is how I remember you: Thursday nights, stray curls

strong arms, beads & masks, stretch pants, your brown skin

so light and warm
I think it melts
in fractions of milliseconds.


On Thanksgiving you made empanadas.

Next to you I was a tissue waiting for someone to pluck me up

& blow. Your children petted the dog, their bodies like caramel-pops,

why the dog licked them so intently. Those kids got their good manners & sass

from you, why I message through seventeen time zones to ask how you are.           

Though I’m angry, I know it isn’t about me.


Tired of pushing the boulder uphill to find flat land.


Rumour has it the top of the hill is rocky & the other side steep

so the boulder will roll out of control, crushing the second gens below –

it’s gravity, scary shit, which is why I’m saying I’d be calmer

if I could get my hands on some fungi

that which was birthed from the gut
of the earth, a knife to keep me busy
and flesh for me to feel


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