She alphabetizes atrocities by day

and dances to the beat of the oppressor by night.

On the sprung wooden floor she holds hands

in the circle and stomps between accents

till the song surrenders.

She favors facials and varietals,

poached salmon and balcony sunsets.

And always there is music.

Her friends, scattered round the globe,

keep their doors open for her,

though none ever see the roots

that part her hair.

She can archive anywhere.

At bedtime she soaks her feet in lavender

and then sleeps unwound

till the wine retreats 

and the dreams advance.

 

—Papers, Brooklyn, 2023