you   were  not born        to  us

              the     first     time

  but  later,    became   a   hurricane        baby  turning  blue

          in      my      hands

   in     god’s     parking    lot

        like     the     seas       at   dawn’s          stretch.

 

     the men       that  built   the man        that  built       you

all  speak       of god            as                “he”.

 

  plead    security    by     forgiveness  of  ashing  x

        and    dry   gospel  tongues    from      running     bloody

     the men       that  built the man        that  built       you

           wanted                   so    desperately

to      find          what  they   wanted  on      their  tongues

     like     a bad    lie

but  never cradled        against  the   threat  of  gravity

               like    a        newborn.

                          they    dug-

     surely,  glimmers    of     gold bars        and god’s will

            hidden   somewhere

 in   the       bottom of     the  ocean

 

i   wonder   now  

  as     you,      storm girl,    grow into ever  rising  tsunami,

   if the   salty blue   blood that    god and i       boiled for you   

           that   day     on    bank    street

             will     ever       cool        down

       if  you   have adapted  to the       crashing

wired    waves       in your veins             yet

    and   if    you        remember    the    first    time

       swimming       in  our        sea,

  your    forever       weightless      refuge

    just  a year     after   being  born  from the    tides,

when  the   woman  who built the   woman  who built 

          you                                 wrapped   you-

spine   and  heart    in        cobalt     nylon

dropped  you    into my arms    and said,

 

“she’s got you, tay-

 

float”