II.

Wherever you are now, may the only poems needed spill from the breath of angels. May the winks and the drinks be made of cloud. May the People of Color soccer leagues be free of drama. May the marches call you and all the lost into the streets for a collective embodiment of the fabulous. May there never be another prison, not even the ones we make for ourselves. Love to you brother. Love to you most of all.

Well Then

—After Agha Shahid Ali

There’s no explaining it away.

I may as well tell myself

the wind never cradled a rough sheet on a ragged line.

Or that a wave

could not carry wood,

worn through by the hunger of worms

back to a shore that reminded it of home.

I may as well deny that stars

are fuel, long in coming and long in staying.

But it’s no use.

Here I am again, thinking of you and hoping

that in you, I beat like a raindrop,

or a favorite song, or that I drum

in a dream,

unfold like a pillow

a vague shape,

to exist somewhere

in your landscape—

that you hold me

not caring

about the estimation of my worth

but that I am solid

in your arms

to beat the small histories

that we allow to hold us back

and away—

let us write

as if the world were paper

and we our own stories

to live tell.

In Harbor

You’ve never been good at doing more

than one thing at once,

but you’re learning.

So you listen, every time you listen,

whether or not you were meant to understand,

her voice a bell calling ships to harbor

you tell yourself

friends are friends and friends are good

and

be cool

and

be patient

and

no expectations.

Some of these stories sail slowly

as if every small town were made of stories

unfolding,

a lake needing storm clouds

so you listen and you listen and you don’t know

who is who but maybe a harbor

is a sort of story that stands still—

how could she swallow a waterfall

then learn to speak through rain.

Stories so vast

that the ocean swallows the horizon and

we are all just silhouettes

against a sun, and even the sun must surrender

if even for just a little while

and that is beautiful.

You wonder if you can ask the moon

to be an ache in your doorframe twice.

You wonder if the flap of a butterfly’s wings in China

will sway her just a step back toward you.

You wonder if the stars and magic will ever be on your side.

You see her again but this time it’s her door.

She invites you in,

her smile both harbor and storm

and you feel like a boat

made of nervous birds.

She asks, can I tell you a story?

Yes and yes and yes and yes.

III.

Ego-Tripping as Self-Defense Mechanism for Refugee Kids Who Got Their Names Clowned On