AALIYAH ANDERSON

A Negro Possession

Black coffee tucked into my cherry-red gingham skirt, I
          was conversation’s cuticle; a numerous response
to corners; media rex for dried mops & chemistry of axolotls,
          I dropped my reusable bags onto the floor, no,
the ground, or the sidewalk, which bikes, though
          not welcomed, approach—& go.

I am told of the violence, statistically
          speaking, in this world, yet I teethed
my scaled emerald tail as I risked my life searching
          for creamer, oatmilk sickly enough to
make herbal silly. I relearned cities then: Geneva,
          Brussels, a Québec inside a Québec.
Some aid between my thighs, careless
          stretch marks gained, hollowed as I teetered
on morality—if I’d been taken, at least I would’ve
          crossed that intersection, chafing unheard
by public buses. At least I would’ve told
          citizens the final state of my addiction, given
apologies in the same way I’d recently taken
          to excusing my name: I know—or

I am aware—& I’m so sorry. To prevent
          further difficulties, I’ll try to avoid you
tomorrow. They’d always whisper the word girl &
          meant millipede, guessed maybe she’d never known
the privilege of being alive, but we can’t be certain—
          there are many ways to be kind, & I’m never
sure of locations, not accurately, not without
          thinking of what borders & who
can never touch.

          I don’t need a tag, a flag, a thin silk sheet, do
I? If I forgo my name, we can agree it’ll be
          alright; they could look between these great brown
thighs & sanction real languages. I could flatten,
          linguistically, atoms bumping, relearning from each
other as I—an imposter—look for another shapeless
          girl to surface.