I need to draw circles underneath the place where you sleep
to keep you here, to ground me ( I went fluid, water broke burst forth
and I rock forward and backward to places that I have been
and this is transit! The motion and the struggling and the pulling
and it hurts ahhhh. It makes me bend in places that I should not
and I curl backwards to kiss my people goodbye)
because when you are inside of the circles you cannot go anywhere
and I am tired of winter and goodbye and all things sharp and blue
like January (the homeland that I had that I forfeited was far better
than this rift.

But I loved you with fingers like spiders that crept and wept
between my own, like spring! New in the world and you were covered in water--
but what is there to say when I gave up a homeland and a people and now I
walk towards that horizon?
and I move and twist and turn and transit
and ahhhh how it hurts to love you
when the vines come upwards and plant you down.
I twist and turn and move and transit and you shushed me
because what would you ever know about a homeland)
a circle underneath your bed will do it, keep you here with me, ground me
because I move forward and you are not with me anymore
and for your fingers, long and made for piano strings, for your fingers
I grieve because in the twist and turn of transit
they let go of my own.