honey in tea. she always
thought of tea. a kind of
care that is easier to give
to someone else
than to yourself.
she always stirred honey into your
sleepytime tea, she did not flinch
when you were sick. there is a kind of
home you can find there.
in tea, and the holding of hair.
you remember this
running at night when
it’s too cold for everyone
else. this is not winter, not cold ha
you can’t stop running, and when you get home you almost shiver
in your sweat, there is pink in your cheeks, there is sweet
ness in your hot shower and the hot tea and the soft music
almost stills you remember
wondering why you can’t just
go with the flow love yourself just not too much,
do exactly what you know would make you whole,
do something every day that scares you be
cool confident sexy fun chill smart funny
so you try hot yoga. it kicks your butt.
on the bus you call the woman who held you when you born.
I am stressed
standing on the escalator on the way home hurt
you then text the girl georgia who
gave you her number you
swayed in her grace and the dizziness
of doing hot yoga and she grabbed your arm
and you almost walked into traffic
for her, before you really knew
hadn’t seen this many white people in one room in a while.
tonight you sweated it out. the cold air feels colder you
think maybe you could rebuild los angeles with your strong arms
that’s how much energy you build in hot yoga
before you reach
home a man on the street wants to sell
you a mixtape
for the homeless, to help build a home.
reflexively you shake your head no, i can
barely pay my rent you
hug your sweaty yoga mat, sorry
moments later, when he is gone
you regret this, you think of
the ten dollars in your pocket you
probably will spend on coffee, or wine
still, you are learning
how to build a home
so you forgive yourself this time.
when you get back you fall into
your chair, you realize only
in your weakness, you think of
how many times you will
have choices, and chances
to make someone something