In the summer of false beginnings, I flew cageless: I watched
a pigeon pick apart and devour a dragonfly, its wings flapping,
still, in holographic light. Then I understood humans
build entire highways by hand. I still hated my body,
was recovering from an Adderall overdose when they brought
Robin Coste Lewis to talk about Death, the Self, etc.
Besides designer drugs, I watched florid men drink
to oblivion. When a city imploded, I wrote hard
about trees. In workshop, the Arab Spring was considered
extraneous or overrated. Nakba Day was an opportunity
for the white kids to stay silent. I never homed
another tongue, not even my own. Like a child,
I planned to escape before seeing redemption in a boy’s
throbbing thigh. Poetry helps us live our lives (Stevens).
Do we trust that? No one reads poetry except the poets.
Aimless, we lust after the sound of pigeons
scraping through the wings of a dragonfly.