how many times
have i been caught in the sin
of being heavy-handed? too much
water being left to overboil
too much of my head being
anvil-heavy and twice as hard
after all these years of being
dead broke, zombie-tired
or caught in the death rattle
of autopay, that which taketh & taketh away.
ma told us her recipe for good
rice about as many times
as she told us not to call her ma,
said a sack of goya can stretch
about as far as the truth
if you need it bad enough
and haven’t i always been in need of something:
common sense, two more dollars,
a squeeze of lime, a new tooth
to push a nervous tongue against.
often, i droop against the unforgiving lip
of the stove and think of what else must be
done before resting and just say fuckever,
next time. next time the grains will be
as defined as a jheri curl, and next time
my good hand will be my best one,
my brain like a double scoop of sunlight
piled high above the distress.
and i will tell myself,
“you are like a new day:
you have so much potential.”
