each morning
i find
me, sifting
through all the syllables
of love
brimming with words i can say
and cannot spell
half–illiterate in my mother
tongue             half–silent
in          my      purchased         f——– -luency

at the age of five
i watch my mother fold her breath
into birds          until they found
home
in a stranger’s
arms
and yes
what of all the green blessings
in my mouth – the shadows
that keep me company
when my lover’s face is a city
drowning with epitaphs

i open myself to a new kind of love–
a beautiful prison where no one is running
where no one is burning where no one is hiding