To Revolt Is To Insist On Joy

Today my steps are finally light,

and the pale afternoon is a little breath.

I love cauliflower with turmeric,

the taste of sweet olive oil,

the rubber trees, how we really belong

to all of this, how the universe is as old

as it is young, and what a thought.

I am sending you a long voice note

about how so much has changed.

Nothing I say will be new,

you've heard it all before and still, I think,

I know—you will listen. Anyways.

You can't see the waves from here

but they remind me of that day,

the last time we stood close. What generous sun.

To have lived is to have seen,

and come to think of it, we haven't seen much.

I call my mother, and my mother

calls my brothers, and my father

is such a good man. The gardenia

is sprouting after I'd given up on it.

The grass is shooting, like stars,

in too many directions at once.

Look, there. I am stopping to lay in this patch,

they haven't stolen it—yet. Even tragedy

has a shape, can be uprooted. The sea is breaking,

again and again, like our flimsy hearts. Nothing dies.

Smell this yellow flower, so little, here.

The poems weren't lying. It's true.

It's true it's true it's true