Relational Geography
My aunt knew she was marrying the wrong man
when she dreamt every meal she cooked burnt black
on the stove, caught a vision of herself,
pregnant and weeping. Dutiful niece,
I pocket the story, try to fit it firmly into verse.
But it only goes so far. How to be the kind of person
God shows his hand? At a concert,
I pick up a woman’s son though she has not asked.
In the morning, I awake to a child crying
in the next room, the incessancy bleeding
into that of a rooster’s crow downstairs.
My own tears have no singularity.
I cry from the sidewalk to the shower
to the taxi to the beach. I retrace
my aunt’s “and thens” and become tender
in all the unnameable places. I am browning slowly
and then the food burned, and then I was pregnant,
and then I was weeping.