Zanzi

Eight AM, I wake in my father’s home with my mother in my chest.

There was a vacant bathroom outside the church park. 
I crawl in beat, destitute, feeding off the radiant waves. 
I stare into a warped mirror punched by drunken twilight boys, 

On the porch, with grooves of woven twine 
embedded into the underbelly of my thighs, 
I sit and listen intently for you. My ears perked, 
with unruly fire-streaked hair tucked behind them,