rest in peace

To love greater than being insecure—-
to skinny dipping, alopecia or curly hair, Allah.
The list is endless today. I couldn’t fly in my dreams
because I was laying in my bed.
My best friend’s snort laughs from the night before
have echoed into tortuous cries this morning,
and I purge with her as if fears are foreign to our bodies.
I say, “Release. You will never run out.”
Love is the last thing to ration.
But I tire easily in Sukhasana,
shaking to the gamble of her possible
posthumous birth and also my second cup of coffee.
There is hope that my mom’s abdominal CT scans are interpreted
as just fat,
and this book’s trope of “in another lifetime”
makes me fall to my knees to pray for
and write an ode to:
submission, the sun’s sanctuary, my shrine,
your gone brother, her father, and both of mine,
a white picket fence overseas built like child’s play
around light pink bricks on a backdrop of olive trees,
more lists, blind trust, and Schrödinger’s cat;
because are we alive if we aren’t loved?