dear someone who is not night, who
is peeling glitter polish from her own nails,
who is talking & talking to three a.m.
women in the months leading up
to her historic season of mania, June,
high on three a.m. confession
to women—I love women, I love
the dark tether of their hearts and the hidden
erratic singing, & some days it is spring in the haunted
terrain, it is spring of ragged blossoms
that race over leaning-in mill houses,
spring & the old plantations are well-kept
polished white, and I tuck my mother’s
saris into a closet, one is red & gold
& I married in it, my hands smell
of coffee now, one sari is a stinging
deep pink like a curse from the bravest mouth