is what a wise person / a few years younger than i / once told me / and i think my time has come /         i can tell from the tremble in the fabric / hanging from my body / each buzz / a sliver of pride /        sent from a place that i am not / by a person / beaming / on my behalf / a person who has / at          least once / spoken my name in a prayer / or around a table with their kin / one day / i hope to        have a wedding / in a room filled / with the bodies that i love / and me / the shimmering thing in        the middle / but until then / i will settle for this small joy / this growing list of names / i once          asked a man that i admired / if i could follow / and learn of how he survives / from the light and    magic / of my phone / and now he too / is in my pocket / linen at its peak / a swarm of my            cousins / and the companions i met in my youth / when i was vivid and unconcerned with        becoming / here too / is the girl  / who linked her lips with mine / under a shivering sky of      gunpowder / and confetti / and my pocket is a heavy chorus  / of champagne and gratitude / and  amongst the hums / is my mother / telling me that the alley / on which i once lived / is splitting      open / and an unbroken stream of hands / is rising from the dirt / their dead and blue thumbs /  stretching toward the stars / and the woman i am now with / who is sitting beside me / but at the    same time / is also in my pocket / looks up and says / look / at how infatuated people are / by                    your breathing / and what it has afforded you / then flicks her fingers / across the cold window of          metal in her hands / and watches a hundred faces speed by / without blinking