Underneath idiosyncracy i find something pure
An unadulterated sign of life
So whole it rages with joy
Inside awkwardness i find, capitalized
A hope of connection and forgiveness
My own
And in a world connected
To me in my skin
And in my spiritual growth
There’s a secret club
People have been fighting for entry
Killing for access
I rest in it, this place
Unalone but singular
Like Gospel
Like orgasm
Damn it feels holy
Lord it feels visceral
Wholesale
And unbought
Simple
And mine, beloved
Belovedly mine
Though not mine alone
Representation
And its required taxation
I loooooooooove
And I sigh
My Africa
diasporized
My British Irishness
slave inserted
My righteousness in humble disrobing
I am all of these things
Still working on finding these things
Handfasted to the search
For the bottom of me
Eruption
