Of course all art is omnidirectional,
but this is straight from
the bones of my grandmother’s joy
as she reaches for a new book
and the love bled into my lungs
by my mother’s womb.
This is straight at the sick-souled man
who taught me how to fear
instead of love.
This is for the children I have taught
and the women I have brought into my kitchen
and fed meatloaf, cake, cinnamon rolls.
They fed me love,
from the other side of fear,
What words can scrub away the places I have been
and the people who have placed me,
broken, here.
