follow the moon

we can’t uncarve our ancestors from our bones
so see how maybe everyone is used to leaving but
my whole hxstory has been about trying to stay
say war. say warn.
with feet born crashing in dead sprint
with blood of too many rivers flowing through me
to know which to follow home.
i don’t know how to love in exodus
maybe i wake and feel the wind move through my body
but she reminds me what love lives in this skin,
says stay. says stay anyways.

i can tell you how our diaspora baby hearts don’t beat right in english
how it is always mother tongue dancing in summer time at the back of our throats
crowning each other in flowers and dust and prayer
our love drawn in a breath
somewhere between three exodus tongues in some unnamable place with no borders
maybe, here, fear cannot live
maybe, here, we don’t have to draw a tripline and leave each other on the other side
which is to say, aren’t we so fucking tired of all these borders?

we learned to map ourselves with the sky
our only border turning into a new day
tell me. is there anything more honest than what is moonlit?
the legend goes
if you follow the moon, it will lead you home.


I doubt these empty pockets
could produce a grave
or plot of land
or shovel—my fingers
cannot penetrate this
scorched, mountainous earth:
and always,
there is hunger.


In the story of the lady in the moon, there is only one ending: to live out her nights as a captive, over and over, as if some necessary penance, as if a sorrow to see a woman paper-thin against the lesser light.