You spilt love too young.
Too young to know how to bend.
Too little to carry morning dew on your back.
You fretted about things that make God angry.
Who sends a wolf to a praying child even if they were born running?
Forget dreams that make you old learn to make love
without breaking what you touch.
Your brother shuffles in his seat looking uncomfortable when you say, “what if someone were to do that to me,” and mumbles, “I’d fuck them up. You know I’d fuck them up.”
He cannot look you in the eye today.
It’s the one time in twenty something years that you don’t instinctively feel the need to make him feel better about himself
or lament the plight of mixed up black boys from broken homes
or consider the flawed system
it’s the one time in twenty something years
that he’s more the culprit
much less the victim
so you clear your throat (purposefully)
and say,“That’s inexcusable and one corner I wont stand in to fight for you
so you’d better talk. Now.”
So you sit down to talk
and he cries, mostly.
'on hearing he hit his girlfriend'
Yrsa Daley-Ward, ‘bone.’
now available at amazon.com
Sometimes goodness comes
from treating yourself.
Not like you burned earth to dust
but like YOU made it
into a beautiful body.
Crowned it with stars,
put a precious coat over it
and called it home