Poem in which I am

December 7, 2025

A slender sliver of light. A battered photo album buried beneath other photo albums. In which I am a late night phone call to a sister–in which I am the sister. In which I am a cheek pressed against the cold window, examining for signs of fear. In which I am calling for wonder and fear to be the same. In which I am a blank space, or a name carefully crossed out of the family journal. In which I am what we never admit. In which I am a memory kept between teeth. In which I am what is most tender: a kiss, a sigh of relief, a chin tucked over a shoulder. In which I am testing my humility, which is to say my vulnerability, for its worth. In which I am raking in apologies and providing them all at once. In which I am a warm belly laugh followed by other belly laughs. In which I am a record player serenading the room with Luther Vandross's The Impossible Dream, Miles Davis if we're lucky. In which I am a chorus of bodies shuffling out for the night–muttering to themselves, goodbye, goodbye goodbye.

A slender sliver of light. A battered photo album buried beneath other photo albums. In which I am a late night phone call to a sister–in which I am the sister. In which I am a cheek pressed against the cold window, examining for signs of fear. In which I am calling for wonder and fear to be the same. In which I am a blank space, or a name carefully crossed out of the family journal. In which I am what we never admit. In which I am a memory kept between teeth. In which I am what is most tender: a kiss, a sigh of relief, a chin tucked over a shoulder. In which I am testing my humility, which is to say my vulnerability, for its worth. In which I am raking in apologies and providing them all at once. In which I am a warm belly laugh followed by other belly laughs. In which I am my record player serenading the room with Luther Vandross's The Impossible dream, Miles Davis if we're lucky. In which I am a chorus of bodies shuffling out for the night–muttering to themselves, goodbye, goodbye goodbye.

III

A late memory–

I am apologies–

a dream muttering goodbye

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Poem in which I am

Poem in which I am

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