Tonight I’m performing at The Bell House, which is a huge deal for me.
When Selena gains more language she asks the inevitable question.
“What do you do?”
Any time somebody asks me this I can only shit out an answer,
leave it there, and walk away, ashamed.
I tell her I am a poet.
She says, “That’s romantic!”
I tell her that I go to colleges and universities and I read poetry there
and that’s how I make a living.
She doesn’t care. She didn’t ask about that.
“So you do what you love!”
She gives me a hug.
She is starting to have a scent now.
I breathe it in her hair.
“Your Mami must be so proud of you.”
She squeezes my arm.
And even if she isn’t, it feels true.
Even if I don’t feel in love, I believe in it.
I think of her when I take the stage.
I think of her when the audience feeds me their laughter
and the mmms from their empathetic throats.
I invited You but I could not reserve
You a seat. Selena’s coming, I tell You.
You watch from the back.