Underneath me, in front, right on top—an earthquake, a lynching, a hurricane:
the way this earth shakes as I stand in this world of a storm.
The hurricane passes, and I enjoyed the rain.
The hurricane passes, and I pull weeds from the grave of 400 strangers;
they could be my kin or my oppressors.
Still, steadily,
so curiously,
I tug green from the dark brown and hope no poison finds exposed skin.
I wish for forest and fly across the country to a city of concrete and star shine.
Always, when I want earth,
I rise into the sky.
It makes sense I would chase the stars.
Sometimes it feels the cosmos are more connected to earth than my feet.
The stars feel the nearest witness to all this madness,
the most honest ancestors.
I would go to ask the rivers, but they moved them.
Emptied their waters, paved them, and redirected them to trace borders.
From above, the highways look like rivers;
it’s a cruel joke.
