rooms we inhabit / rooms we move through

rooms we inhabit
rooms we move through
like glaciers
a name for the rocks we carry
the rocks we leave behind
a name for how some threads of memory
are a site-specific spooling
a name for the pink-laced sky
and the ringing that drew you towards it
the simultaneous burst/mend
of sun slammed chests

though my intuition told me at least a week ago
my gut/heart/mind is still stumbling to catch up
it is a marvel
the peeling open
the deepgut gratitude
the quest for grace in the unanchoring of change

the same sun hours later
and 900 miles south
pressing through red and lace
spilling through slash-shaped gaps

the knotted gray hair
of a black-coated man
crouched in the shade of a red box
outside the 7-11 at
university and normal

blood orange quarters
whose insides might be named beetstone

cotton tights
ankle socks
and the gap of exposed calf in between

thin white suspenders
X-ing over taylor’s tshirted back
transferring fistfuls of fava pods
into crinkling plastic

my held up fist in at the sweet tree stand saying
you are never in this alone
hold strong

fuschia edges of unnamed succulent
wiping away any doubt of which to bring to my
southfacing sill for
one dollar and thirty five cents

mango mango mango man’s
consistent absence
dimming san diego sun by
several thousand lumens

the color of a tub of
six dollar guacamole
with a majority of fresh ingredients
and one old one

i have to laugh at myself
the moment this talk
draws tears down my cheeks
(once the pump is primed…)

from the front slab a pink ribbon in the same kind of circle that the book title suggests
(rebellion is the circle of a lovers hands)

the five of us bucket-perched
talk of skillshares and workshops sealing seams
maybe it is the chocolate
maybe it is the wonder of witness
maybe it is this submission
(not the kind between the oppressed and those in power
but the kind of submission that is a version of surrender
the giving over of self
the moment muscle rips
to become)