Babeh.

babeh.

I woulda made

a good drummer

my rhythm

is impeccable

I can’t play the piano

I’ve tried

maybe my fingers are too short

maybe this makes me a bad lesbian

is it really,

all in the hips?

the moon is hanging

mighty fine

in the sky tonight

and this walk, right?

cicadas buzzin

and jasmine air

I wore your old

t-shirt to bed

I long for you most

in the graveyard

of where we

used to laugh

where the ash

burned the holes

in the clothes like

a time stamp

your voice,

a still small whisper

from somewhere—

yes, yes, you can

when I am all sure

that in fact I can’t

I wonder

if ever

the wind pushes

its lips

to your cheek

and presses you

to think of me

I’m still writing you love letters.

they’re all addressed to myself.

still climbing

spider monkey

up the shelves

of the house we built

and they’re full

of books

anecdotes

modes of thinking

private library

I take with me

a frog went hopping

across my street

on my walk tonight

I swear they were

the ones

we used to hear

chirps that would come

through the window

in that bedroom where

your grandmother’s

paintings live

it felt untrue

that these frogs

that sound

could live here too

but they do

it turns out

they do

it’s all you

it’s all you

love, a window

to climb through

I didn’t learn

to listen

till I lost you

and see

I’m still me

here I am

still here

trying to make

a laugh

a sound

you can hear

still here

trying

to make you

proud

of me.