From the shadows of everything,
kin upon skin –
here I stand, incomplete;
years of incomprehensions, unsympathetic
curving in the belly of the moon.
I have three decades under my thumb;
they are light in the complexions
of others; this Chinese lantern paper
a bold bright second
angry against the topaz sky.
(The chrysalis is disrobed;
each petal dried,
whispering down my cheeks a confession
of being born and being human,
something I wish to disguise.)
Is there enough of the sun
to return each day, a purpose
of soft arms open
like needled gold?
I claim the beads of salt
I wear as an occupation –
some alchemist lost in untimed lands
where ‘Love’ was ‘love’ -
veils of silk to beautify the self;
something I did not understand.
There is no greater being than You,
I was told
from a building that believed in God;
my skin upon the kin of this
in the burning
of the sky.