I evict myself. At last the days
are good enough to eat, at least
for someone who has lived so long
on crumbs alone. For someone dumb
as weeds, like me, who has to find a light
to turn towards, or die. It is the season
of permission, when most everything
can flourish, if it tries. I think my body
would do anything to please me. But it isn’t easy
to be kind. It isn’t effortless to want
to stay alive. Sometimes my mother
starves herself. Sometimes she rises every day
at five & walks for miles on air. A marvel,
how her daughters’ daughters thrive
inside their private wilderness.
How they stage their brightest riots
in the country of despair.