unbraid threads of wind as you would
your mother’s cornrows, boy—
because like these threads,
her hair would soon become invisible,
felled by a razor.
hate grief all you want, but do not
say it doesn’t create an oasis on
a boy’s cheek—
do not say it doesn’t call rain down—
i know what it means for a body to
squirm underneath a heavy cloud—
of course,
i have crawled through my father’s last moans.
i have watched his ghost cling to
my brother’s legs, begging.
now, i ask a god to shut the eyes
behind my ribcage.
he doesn’t, so
i claw at a picture on the wall there,
drawing blood in its saltiness;
tell me:
of what use is salt that has lost its flavor?
that is to ask: am i still human if all i want is to
be gone, a bird squawking as an abyss
spreads its arms to welcome.
kumbaya. kumbaya.
will my father be there to welcome me, too?