Poetry

If you had asked me, thirteen, what I wanted
to be one day, I wouldn’t have said it.

the back of my hand and this neighborhood,
which is devolving even now into
a semblance of Detroit. I know not
to lead a horse to water because
that won’t end well. I know my name
and to the mirror’s mute face

Hmong people say one’s spirit can run off,
Go into hiding underground.

Only the physical stays behind.

The peonies are popping! A fist that is also a kettle that is also
A pact petals made with whatever cabal of bees decides to stick

Around. Let’s all us shake on it. Ah, these lungs of mine the perfect
Emergency orange of extension cord coil. All my breathing is