Things I didn’t know I loved

I didn’t know how much i loved my body, 

spending countless years recoiled by soft rolls,

dough

picking at fat

hiding my shoulders. 

scratching out curved lines, 

forgetting geometry,

organic sculptures 

the bass of my bust, the bowl of hips

unfiltered 

a cave indented with stories

thick red lines, black dots

a body of starry nights,

my skin when its blacker than 

toasted brown sugar, 

a raw deep cinnamon raisin

the sun baking red clay

skin, coming from mother,

browned like her beef stew, 

I didn’t know i loved mint in lemonade,

the sight of limes in the kitchen sink and

the moon,

in its rotations of milk and ash,

the sky’s quilt of tales.

I never knew how much i loved

traffic jams,

the halt of new york city movement. 

life caught on 68th.

the stars falling

the street lights flickering 

casting triangles on the curtains

I forgotten how much i loved almond shaped heads 

or the way the nose and chin

find space to fill

forgetting I loved the black man and

the books on his shoulders, 

how he remains despite the burning shelves 

turning into television.

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