1. My mother always wore her fears on her sleeves. Or mine. Depending on what she’d had for dinner the previous night.
2. I once had fish bones for fingers,
A hook line for a tongue
And gills for feet.
And you say your life was a mess.
3. I have known no better truth,
Seen myself no more clearer,
Or found a gospel greater than when I was staring into your eyes.
4. You said to me in a conversation about my mother and how her love for me is a reflection of the revolution happening in her palms:
“Maybe this is how she shows she has failed you”
And I said,
5. On the second night you and I hang out,
You said to me:
“You are a diaspora.”
I did not know what that word meant.
I still do not know what it means.
6. I could have searched for the meaning of the word.
But somehow “diaspora” holds with it some magic for me
That reminds me of you
And I never want to figure it out.
Incase it means you disappearing.
7. Do you like love letters?
If I wrote you any would you read them?
8. Or maybe you prefer love songs?
I can write you the words,
But I can’t promise to say them to you.
My voice is often in the shape of deflated soldiers.
9. I like you,
A bit too much.