child of the singing forehead. child of the
frustrated wrist. your mother yelled because you fell asleep
on your aunt’s pillows and now the whole couch smells of you.
child of amorous pomade. everyone can tell where you’ve been.
even bus windows remember your name. child of the curl that
stole the wind’s fury. how could everything about you not be
bursting?

Ariana Brown, “Invocation,” published in HEArt Online (via daisies-and-goliath)
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