I thought it was you

That did this to me

Unstitched, undressed

Poetry leaking out of

Bursting white seams

In a single room occupancy

Off the old iron mill

Sweating golden beads of

Locked yearnings

To the hum of

The box fan in the

Balcony window, turning

Into lightbeams made of two chillis

And a dried lime

Patient, green, still

A corner store watch and

The kawala I tied myself

Waiting

On the windowsill

The homework I finished

You heard me? I finished it

Tucked in an old laptop

From a secret warehouse

Past the old house

Past the trap house

Where a tall Haitian nergaght’yal

With a B.S. in Computer Science

Wires lightbeams too

I swear it on Astvatz

I thought it was you

But here on this Yalda

Long after you folded

The fire burns free...

For jan, all along

It was actually me