Sister – they built you in a fist
bundling pain, hometown, sneers, et etcetera,
before you woke in the empty rooms of body.
Grappling is what the fist does best: a state.
And the best that history does is break
into sticks. Here, is a stick for your hometown, halved.
There, is a recombination pattern in those stories:
deep within your hair ends the axioms
of loss, losing definition. Grasp
the space adjacent to your lulling body,
connecting the logic of past and future
which must slip, and grow away from your unclasped fingers.