Where I’m Calling From
Don’t burn the jam, mom says,
Keep stirring.
Do you hear me?
Don’t stir the pot, dad says,
you’ll keep the upper hand if they don’t know
how you feel.
Are you listening?
I nod, but I cannot speak
because I have swallowed the moon
My tongue is heavy from tracing its glass curves
The perfume of rain curls under the door
The hummingbird in my chest thwacks awake,
courses blood to my bare toes,
which are hungry for wet dirt.
I will tell you this:
I will burn the jam.
I will stir the pot.
And the rain will come,
and the silver moon will still rise that night
on the wings of tiny, yellow birds.
Do you hear me?
Here is where I am calling from.
— September 2019