This river is a living thing, ice in chunks moving toward me, pulling me into its mutable monotony--always becoming what it was without ever being the same.
I buy strawberry shortcake popsicles. Ten of them, but they only last two nights. I think about how I could have been born during slavery. Or in 2050, when there’s no ozone. If I have an urge to cry, I don’t.
If you are a female firstborn, your ears are pierced at birth, though earrings may be taken away at five, when you walk on your father make out with your mother’s cousin.
I refuse to obey the haunting words sinking into my skin I love the way my thighs rub together while I walk the streets of Brooklyn The way the love shows on these lumps Shoulders strong enough to carry dreams
