band-aids & other temporary healings
i don’t think there comes an inherent healing
with poems or with time.
i was once so triggered i thought i was home
i got comfortable i took off my bag my jacket
each layer from off my shoulder
until i unzipped & was sitting on my own skin
in the dark so long
it could only have been a chair, wherein
my skin hangs ass over the armrest
for decoration, growing eyes out in
this silence, like a passive God,
and yet everything was just still there,
eczema, which i scrape from so long,
i pull from scabs the scaffold
with a bike attached by my project/building.
yes, i did thumb through all (t)his
belt that made the brown a darker brown &
i said it fertilized my flower bed some days,
knowing some days that it would not.
&, yes, this whole thing’s a garden. it(ch)-
the scaffold contraption, with its chains, lock,
like how mothers do
the good child after losing custody i’d say
each bike, hugging the scaffold, was & is me.
and it was here –
i asked to be let out of me
for so long in my room that, in the interim,
a boy got his wish for death, got born again,
woke up in a new mother’s arms, & then,
again, he still handed us his newest intercom
eulogy. & although we knew each
mother wanted every moment he could have
been to rupture the eardrums
of a passive God, all we asked for was
a moment/of silence. people be counterintuitive.
but, this, this one time i died for so long,
while i became a quantum thing so broken
in its compartments
light could not emit, i thought i was giving
out a healing/a poem/a love but fell instead
and kept falling until every orifice of me
shifted to red
and then translucent and then,
his name?” whoever he was, he was
who i was then[?”] giving empty space,
paradoxically warm, with a mouth so good,
God undid me. and i kept going.
knowing what i wanted was
a whole body again, all i asked for was
how mother dusting off her son’s casket
with wail begins to have an a’ight day,
within an archive of stillness & still-
together, i am still/here….