for Robin Coste Lewis

somethin bout the way a woman cant
see her own epigraph, till she sees it in someone
elses hand. the way she dont know

shes glass. that shes concrete.
somethin bout the way this woman puts me on,
one leg at a time.

how to tell her that her smile is a zipper.
that i am the tab she pulls
open. closes like teeth

claspin somethin inside me so deep
my body turns into a suitcase. sloppy-packed
with organs, things she cant

fix. she tells me, pack smart, pack light, to pack
only a carry on. says, girl, why you got so many
locks? she tells me, leave that comb,

don’t need those socks.
says, girl, you dont got room for
all that pain.