there were four of them 

(one promised me the moon and the stars)

there were three of them 

(one built us a home, then set the roof of fire) 

there were two 

(one with many masks came peddling dreams in golden garbage bags)

there was one 

(this one kissed my sore fingertips, wrapped my feet in bandages and breathed life back into all the empty spaces)

my baby’s skin is as soft as his 

lips, as soft as his eyes 

as soft as his hands when he puts them 

on mine 

i met a boy who

keeps his heart far away from his sleeve. 

it cannot exist if he cannot see it, 

which means he cannot feel it, 

which means he’s okay. 

he tells this lie every morning and 

recites it again at night like a prayer to some 

equally delusional god. 

he’s never seen sunshine and he’s 

never heard the ocean crash or 

blue birds sing. 

i want to take him to a hilltop and 

show him what it’s like to sit 

on the roof of the world but 

he’s says he’s comfortable in his bubble. 

it’s got heated seating and pretty paintings 

on the wall. 

not that he looks at them much, 

he’s too busy watching the door for 

the next thing with perky breasts and a 

pack of cigarettes. 

i climbed a hill when i was

seventeen and 

watched the city lights under nightfall. 

the moon was high and the air was cold -

bracing breezes billowing through my 

shirt. 

i kissed the sky & made a wish. 

i asked God what love was and how it can be beautiful and

sweet and 

empty and 

cruel.

He painted a picture of a rose bush. 

their petals were scarlet and sharp like the 

little droplets spilled from soft palms 

with good intentions. 

i climbed a hill when i was 

twenty-three. 

faded pinpricks coated my hardened 

hands.

i spoke to the sky, 

burnt orange & pink, 

and asked her what love was. 

she painted a picture of your face - 

every freckle & laugh line that graced your surface. 

she told the story of those calloused 

palms that could catch teardrops and keep them 

safe - 

not a single one ever spilled to the ground.

she blew at my ankles, 

she blew at my wrists 

till my arms stretched spread eagle. 

i turned my back to the city and

called out your name, 

letting the wind weigh me down into your grasp. 

a tiny drop free-falling from the hilltop, 

the only one that slipped through your carefully cupped

fingers.

love is a dog from hell and

when you chop of its head, three more 

grow in its place to tell you everything 

you want to hear. 

i’m folding away old things and putting them 

in a closet next to skeletons. 

i look them fondly; it’s often fun to think

back on 

memorable nights ending in 

dirty dishes and dried 

tobacco,

on mornings singing songs to 

dead poets on sunlit rooftops, 

still half drunk from something off of 

a gas station shelf. 

but the novelty wears off fast and 

the door begs to be shuttered;

key hidden away in some secret chamber 

in my chest. 

kama mama, kama binti. 

we have the same skin

hair

lips and

thighs

but the spark in my eyes

and the heat in my belly

i get from my father