I have no parents to gift you
or warm hugs, with mother limbs attached/
no supple pies to savor,
or hot drinks when rain cascades,
no Holiday meals, a palette of greens and browns
no laughter or songs passed down/
no comfortable silences, or uncomfortable sighs/
no wish ladled cider to imbibe, or fire’s crackling, opening up the sky
I do however, carry warmth between my thighs, wet lips, from
songs I sing two octaves too high/
sweet maltose comas,
where conga rhythms vacillate—
a hip spring tongue saddened/
a rain induced yawl,
where breasts become anchors
and my mouth
a sprawl/
