Fast typing - "Ode to Dalya’s Bald Spot"

my sister wraps the throw around herself on the small cream loveseat & i know for sure that she is not a speck of dirt on a pill.

she coughs & sniffs up all the lucky air in the room into her excellent nostrils, which are endless holy wells replenishing the soft architecture of her guts.

not even the lupus can interrupt this ritual of beholding.

you ever look at a thing you ain’t make, but become a mother in the looking?

our blood is a thread tied around my finger, tied around her finger, that helps me love.

when her knees swell, when her joints rust, when her hair thins & flees making a small continent of skin on the side of her head, i am witnessing her in whatever state her body will allow.

Bismillah to the brain that put my name next to her name and said look at this girl your whole life and know some kind of peace.

littlest bald spot, that no one expected or knew how to love you remind me of us.

i know Dalya’s thinking, how ugly what a shame, but i wanna build a mosque right then and there.

make an annual hajj to that brown meadow. slick as a coin.

little planet uncolonized. flagless. her awful, but her own.