Poetry

what i am learning now

i mess up the prayer the passport renewal the holding-in of the sigh

i stand out slightly in the way a bruise glows beneath a sleeve

i am weak sometimes on purpose like the jacaranda before the wind

but i write still in lowercase with no permission and too much light

so someone not yet born will know

we were here

what i will be learning tomorrow

to speak without tidying the sentence first

to be kind without vanishing into it

to stay— even when the door is open

to pray like laughter with no one else in the room

to believe not in what i do but in who i am when i lose it

to leave a small light on at the edge of the poem
in case someone is still making their way through