cinnamon french toast
dog with urinary tract infection
roommate with cold,
i’m good though except feeling
alone and we have a
broken fire alarm, chirp chirp
-soup- i made all myself
jane the virgin hashtag love
roof sit sun bathe audre lorde on poetry, strength, solidarity,
kundalini yoga lady in all white, you have ten bodies, she says
this class will help awaken your soul body. tomorrow you will feel
very focused. i want to roll my eyes because I don’t believe in the soul
but after a girl says, i feel yoga stoned, and I get that.
on the way home, i accidentally sit in someone’s pee. the whole bus smelled
strongly of pee so how was i to know that the seat i would choose would be the
pee seat. I am so horrified i start laughing which probably makes me seem
crazed but everyone’s covering their noses and it’s absurd and so gross and so
really what else can i do. i am sitting in another human’s pee.
walking home, choppers over head, am concerned but this isn’t completely unusual and am more pondering what is for dinner — beans and rice and avocado and cheese? or soup? or grilled cheese? near block where tall new york style apartment building is located (if there was an earthquake, girl, we’d topple in an instant) notices lined up cop cars and cops with guns STOP! GO BACK.
I um live there?
tears for fears. where do you go when you are told home is not safe? the taco restaurant at the end of your street. a mariachi band serenades the diners of tacos and sopas and asks if I speak any spanish. i am learning, I say. you are very beautiful, he says. gracias i say, and stuff carnitas and onions into my mouth, happy to still be hungry. i call my sister, then my friend, then my housemate. i laugh more about the pee. i worry about when it will be safe to go home.
9:49 p.m. walk cautiously toward the caution tape — see neighbor from down the hall, we talk — it was a drug deal gone wrong, there was a shooter, they were looking for him but they found him now. breathe. heavy as the fire breathing I learned in yoga. fear in, fear out. guns, tape. crime scene, dog inside with urinary tract infection, can i please
neighbors talk bonding like blood brothers, there is blood on the street
roomie comes, we are finally allowed in, one by one, dark street, tape lifted,
dog so happy to see us. love talk, fear talk, home sleep breathe fear out home
fire alarm still chirps intermittently. text landlord. i notice the dog has peed on my bed.
the fire alarm chirps again. i hug dog. i laugh. fear leaves body.