o’ girl who massages coconut oil into hair,
the next time you wear jasmines in your hair,
can you braid a part of me into the pleats?
i want to know if when you drink the sun,
do the hummingbirds and bees mistaken
you for nectar? you were taught the secret
language of hands, your long slender fingers
dipped in alta-dye artfully slips in and out of
mudras, and i watch. my language of hands
consists only of adorning a pen and conducting
on paper – i want to swell your unsaid into poetry,
i want to be cupped in your palm like i were a
rose with no thorn, i want to be the nape of your
breath. o' girl, the salted ocean laps at my feet,
and i refuse the urge to whisper your name back
at it, preemptively deflating hurricanes.
i know the depth of your strength;
i hope you know it too.
