Getting Over What You Did To Me

Anyone Who Says, “here’s My Address, Write Me A Poem,” Deserves Something In Reply. So I’ll Tell You A Secret Instead: Poems Hide. In The Bottoms Of Our Shoes, They Are Sleeping. They Are The Shadows Drifting Across Our Ceilings The Moment Before We Wake Up. What We Have To Do Is Live In A Way That Lets Us Find Them.

Energy Is Everything. Rubbing Happy And Sad Together Creates Energy.

We Start Out As Little Bits Of Disconnected Dust.

Our Limbs Which Had Already Traveled Far Beyond Her World, Carrying The Click Of Distances In The Smooth, Untroubled Soles Of Their Shoes.

I Grew Up In St. Louis In A Tiny House Full Of Large Music - Mahalia Jackson And Marian Anderson Singing Majestically On The Stereo, My German-american Mother Fingering 'the Lost Chord' On The Piano As Golden Light Sank Through Trees, My Palestinian Father Trilling In Arabic In The Shower Each Dawn.