In the restaurant, the waiter still thinks
we are friends. I read the menu in its
arrogant cursive, remember the letters
I’ve received from you — each little alphabet
curled valiantly, the confident brushstrokes
of an artist seasoned with age.
things past, acknowledge that
back then, tense tends to fluctuate
to subvert weight. depends, whether i’m
in sense or in tents. fast forward, found myself
in tens. writing group, some extracts, pens,
changing lens just as things commence.
CW: mention of death
So my aunt died, and that same day I walked
Down the street and back, from house to house,
Telling the news to strangers on my block,
Pretending I had something to disclose,
A child with a secret, although that secret was
Secret only to me
a beach mourns the sand stuck in the front of my shoes.
i don't remember this.
at a diner i flinch at the likeness of your name.
just one letter off. i look for this letter in my shoes.
outside, a man cups his hands in front of his face and kisses the window.
for your audition. for your exam. for getting
your hands on breakfast. for learning three languages
long since dead. for clinching that scholarship.
for navigating your new campus. for navigating
capitalism. for navigating academic email chains.
for receiving timely replies.