written all over the palm of my hand and the scrolls of the dead sea
are stories of lotteries and causalities and impossible august air.
I can weave blades of grass to make a basket to carry your troubles in,
I'll hide it in a well full of water that I carried from my home town to where I am now.
there's fire in the passage to my lungs, sometimes I go to quench it,
but then I realize I like the burning that makes it harder and harder to speak.
I've caught myself falling against doorframes because they feel so safe on my arms,
I caught myself adding salt to my water because I remember
how the cells shy away from each other, that microscopic poetry
that I made in ninth grade biology, mirroring every human reaction I've had since then.
when I'm alone and I see a leaf fall from a tree I always have to stop myself
from trying to give it back.
I have to remind myself that she let it go. she let it go.