I find a spot to stand on the train
and it feels like a paradise,
spaces between strangers sock and shoes
and sweat and stories—
let me keep my distance.
Although there is a tiredness to it.
I was taught I could do any damn thing,
and I believe it: I feel my uniqueness
lifting me up as a I walk,
swarming around in my veins
a home for the hive, bees going extinct
but I know where the honey is:
it’s right here, honey.
Touch the water.
Tell me about it in 10 years when your city has none
a reality not yet created yet so tangible I want to reach out
and touch it, drag it back to now so I connect my future son-
in-law to my sink, so he can grab a bucket and fill it,
empty it, fill it, empty it into Chennai, into Cape Town.
I know New York will follow one day
does my specialness stand a chance? Does our ability
to find our race and run it define our character,
our identity,
our existence
the years that have been dripping by,
like water from a faucet,
like honey from a hive.
I know that I cannot solve any problem alone but where do I
start? Tell me where to put this water and these bones and I’ll do it.
Just promise me someone will be here when the flowers bloom.
June 28, 2019
