Somebody has to give insight
to the car accident that left
two dead, another in critical condition.
Life must be materialized
into form, a shape that others
can formulate, breathe into, emotionalize.
Placing life onto paper infinitesimally
changes a person psychologically.
It’s biological. It’s an angel on your shoulder.
There are knots that must be undone.
Cramped muscles that must be massaged.
when my teacher whispered in my ear:
you might want to wear a bra.
when silence became a hindrance
to my growth, and as a feeler
I was forced to speak.
To be a Program Facilitator in County Jail
Brick, painted an awful sour-egg white.
I have my clearance badge, my curriculum.
The officer takes her time. Eventually, I am granted entrance.
What impresses me most is the odor. Grainy, overly close.
Wearing a bright yellow shirt, thinking: too much
assuredness is uncouth. Too much brightness is blindness.
My hair is tied loosely root to end, a caveat of insecurity,
tendrils fighting for freedom, a loosening within me.
The women are skinny. And fat. Happy. And sad.
I walk in wearing the fucking sunlight.
They accept me as if I were their mother, sister, best friend.
I like your shirt.
It’s the little things.