I’m looking for poetry to help me
Give you the thanks you deserve
For dismembering your shoulder when I needed it.
For stirring my ginger tea
When my voice got lost in that job/man/city
For filling the empty space and lines with
Words to coax
that winter I would never forget.
There was the time I went through my Gronah girl phase
And we talked for hours about my
adventures in Los Angeles
And Las Vegas
And Le Bronx.
You never judged me; we just sat and laughed for hours until
Maybe you or I cried over the tragedy that comes with being us.
You handed me the remote and I searched for other
Gypsy girls with which I could relate.
None would come
I kept watching as you watched me and my then disheveled hair and face.
I could tell you were thinking
“what can I do to make her better” or
“maybe I should grab her a comb”
“I better not see that nigga in the street.”
We laughed some more
until we wondered where our stories would end.
You helped me just by being silent and still and you, you lovely woman you.
I wish I would have told you then.
I love you, girl. Love you more than poetry—more than words.
It’s confounding that they call you angry—
You with your big spirit and your
glorious, wonderful, kind and beautiful self.