scroll through dumpsters
like daily digital feeds,
translating trash to dinner.
This auntie doles out
packages of napkins,
searching my face
for a smudge of compassion.
She adjusts her hijab,
collapses in shadow
of a highrise naked
of windows. This boy
sells gum—no, a smile
that pleads for keys
to the house
of mercy. That one
extends stubs to a ballet
once featuring her
lissome legs. Today,
she prays aloud for me,
imperturbable god
with the leisure
to ignore the cries.
My lost sisters, my dear
sons, my done uncles
and drained mothers, my
beloved broken
fingers, you tap me
to the spine, column
climbing my clouded
sight, and past, rising
to a place so high
and so far, we can’t be told
or held apart.
