These Silences, These Stranded Travelers

I want to say things
That are full
Like ripe tomatoes
Like roux
Or the air in July outside the French Market.
Things that are dedicated to
The world around me, collapsing,
Bodies in the streets of Aleppo,
The lead in the water,
Turkey, Orlando, Sherman Park,
But
My own heart gets
Between my teeth
Because I am selfish
And then I can only feel
The hollow in my stomach,
My shaking hands,
My cold feet,
And all this silence, sitting on my chest like
A sleeping drunk
And I am pressed like plucked foliage
Between pages,
And I
Can’t remember
If I belong here or not

Author: Nina

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