poetry
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dark humor

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i am in my twenty-seventh year.
sometimes i think about it and cry.
this is not adulthood–this hungry bank account,
this hungry belly that does not want food
to fill it. the irony of class this week was that
i was surrounded by kids between foster homes and
waiting for adoption and the poem i wrote
was about wanting a child–a  poem
about wanting a child in a room full of children
writing about wanting a home. god has jokes.
he smiles while we hold back our tears. the room
beside the one where we sleep is too empty–just
clothes waiting to be folded and a yoga ball and
sheets kept warm by no collection of cells.
i can’t do this. i’m not strong enough.
two weeks left in a seven-week job
and i do not want to go back. i cannot see them
and not break and who am i to dare cry
in their presence? some woman who will go on
living her life without ever having said
lucía, you are amazing and your words
are stronger than the fists of any man
, or
ebony, i want to take you home and
braid your hair.
that would be going
too far.
that would be breaking a rule. that
would be making us all feel more than we already do–
and we couldn’t have that, now could we?

This entry was posted in: poetry

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