I
This morning, I showered like it mattered.

I rubbed shea butter into my skin

like I was polishing something I might someday become.

The scent stayed on my fingers

like a ghost that had made peace with its haunting.

I cleaned my ears like a gentle archaeologist.

Gold. Amber. The body’s slow apology

for having to protect itself.



II
They say human hands aren’t webbed anymore,

but mine keep reaching like they forgot.

Like some part of me still believes

I was made to swim through things—

uncertainty, silence,
us.



III
I’ve been trying not to hurt anyone,

so I buy saran wrap in bulk

from the surplus store on 24th—

aisle of plastic gloves and off-brand pop tarts.

After brushing my teeth

in pajamas patterned with tiny sheep,

I stretch the wrap across my apartment

from dining table to front door—

a clear, trembling tripwire

meant to keep the world out.

It wavers in the hallway light,

like a thought I can’t quite finish.
I call my feather boas angels.

Bright orange, the color of sunlit persimmons.

I twist them into my hair

like I’m on my way to an opera

that ended before I was born.

Something grand and loud,

the kind of performance you leave

with your hands trembling

from having clapped too long.



IV
I walk like someone who’s watched for ghosts

but forgot about sidewalk cracks.

I can’t find north without your shadow,

but I can point out

a chicken bone in the gutter,

a jack of clubs caught in the wind,

a velvet couch sagging at the curb

like someone once loved there.
I like things that flap—

ideas, sparrows, my own excuses.

I tell myself I can turn this around,
that the stoplight won’t stay red forever.

At intersections, my palms mimic the signal.

And while I wait,

you dig through your coat pockets

for that blue lighter that sparks

but never catches.

We look at each other,

and it is okay.
We walk anyway.