I want to slip into your ear instead of your laptop;
wander, from the whorls on your fingertips against my eyelids, fluttering,
jaw, remembering to smile,
into the oceans of particular rooftop conversations like a scene
in that movie I pretended I hated
spilling across our bodies –
sometimes I want to take you
take with you,
a bath in tea,
steeped, sleeping against your chest
until the water seeping, turns tepid,
tasting like you and me
Speaking as someone who is generally full of tea,
It has its own music, singing in my lips
And I want to hear you laugh saying
“it’s just flavoured hot water”
I want to hear you laugh at my little wrinkled fingers,
Tracing raisins, memory, and hope on your face.
And maybe warnings.
I want to laugh at your crooked toes and your crooked smile,
and your crooked ideas.
But the truth is I bottle up too much and drain you in the process.
I am not the Brown Woman monolith.
Tell me when you find it.
I am picturing a wooly mammoth too beautiful to not be killed.
Yes, I’ve seen enough of what men do to women and wombs
You’re not nearly through the floor of this attic; I’m sitting on the rooftop
But please please don’t feel like the plots of these stories are similar.
But I go as far as an afterthought and never an epilogue and point to the misery of
imagination that never prepares me for loss in the way loss prepares me for loss.
When was the last century?
That sudden moment of clarity between history and now – Was it called ice and grace?
I sit on rooftops forever but it took me a long time to find the sky
and dragons masked as people, flying by.