I’m shoring up sermons against Seattle storms,
warned of the darkness that settles in the soul
and lingers, unlike old lovers.
I bought a $5 off-white owl mug for tea
and a Himalayan salt lamp like M
always lit to welcome us home
and a fuzzy white blanket to fall
around my aching limbs
drained from breaking hearts
and stereotypes about minority women.
I will not be submissive
to their missives of missing persons
like they can raise me from the dead and love
like nothing’s changed.
But I want someone to dance in the rain with me,
leave puddles on the kitchen floor and weep
with the big emotions I can’t hold back
for fear of losing myself in stacks
of newspapers on bathroom tiles
moldering with primrose scented soap.