Somehow I think my life opens always on a Thursday.

The days before merely a suggestion. Somehow in front

of a mirror too small for the truth of me I am learning 

to love the ampersand of my body. Which means I own

my hunger. Which means cravings for jjangmyeon at

three in the afternoon. Too I sing offkey in the shower. 

Who are you calling a pedant. I love Ella and Louis 

in the same breath as Squidward Kenny G. I keep 

souvenirs from Macau and I can still lose my left earring 

at the drugstore. I am 5’1″ and I verily insist on that inch. 

I use charcoal to remove the stench of goopy somethings 

stuck in the back of the fridge, which has become a nebula 

of smells. I ask for impossible things: a portrait of my head

bursting into a flower, a pen that never runs out of ink,

reading the same story again for the very first time, cake

that doesn’t go to my hips, the unbearable lightness of

oranges. I have a messy house and I cry often about it. 

There is lots of crying in the long history of who I am

becoming. Somehow I think my life has been torrential 

rains that fill the balcony but my plants don’t die. I don’t 

die. I wear red lipstick like a flag and I take being your 

emergency contact seriously. On the day I was born 

interacting galaxies Arp 81 became visible after a hundred

million years. Suppose it only takes a collision to arrive 

on earth. Most of us sleep through earthquakes and I desire

to be awake for when my happiness is let loose by fissures. 

I want to learn about the world by looking at birds. Try as 

I might I can only exist slowly. When you see me bump

into sharp corners you will understand. Sometimes I can’t

comprehend that I can be loved but I am loved anyway. 

It doesn’t have to be a Thursday. It can be any day.

But life can open. And I don’t have to die.