gray skies, decrepit buildings, brick factories
revamped into lofts. trees bursting into little white blooms.
spring on the familiar sidewalks of six-years-home
etched into the soles of so many shoes
i thought i'd never own, but womanhood molds us
into things contrary to our nature.
red hoodie, cane, bow-legged limp, plastic bag dangling
from a hand wizened beyond its years, teetering on the edge of
gentrification, your skin out of place, your southern love
out of place, your "hello, sister," expected and unexpected at once
my six-years-home, my feels-like-many-years-world taught me
not to show my love, taught me hypocrisy, and the dust of self-loathing
settles as I recognize that quick wish
for complacent uncaring that will never come
hello, brother
my heart is paralyzed for what I am, what I become
you know me not as one of the thousands of
walkersby on fast feet who could carry your bag
but as your own
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