All the things I’m meant to receive today;
sun warmth on yoga mat
bird song orange
jasmine lush lime
peeking through windows
vacuum cleaner whirrs; the cleaner is back
sweat on brow
hover
over me like a child whose mother died;
she’s four years old
unsure, she waits at the threshold
to be accepted, scooped up
by love—new/step/good/evil—no idea yet, no one explained
how to receive/give/connect
iridescent illusions
the moon, full and trembling with the waves, is not the moon
it’s a reflection
the girl waits
tilts her forehead—leaf seeking sun, tides beseeching moon
clamouring to touch
She waits her turn.
Of all the things I’m meant to receive today,
I choose to pick the hurt of your words.
Your words are dunes—shape-shifters; they are picture-perfect
when we have company
but they turn
when the door is shut
when we are alone, together in a room,
they move
shift—cover—consume— steal____________all/my — space —
entomb me alive
“Look at the way he looks at you…” friends, family ooze at Diwali,
“So much love!”
The lights, the fireworks, orange blossom jasmine, and birdsong are stuck at the threshold.
No one taught me how to pet a four-year-old’s forehead.
Or how to ask for help.