Yalda
Stephanie Najarian White
poetry ⋅ issue 2
I thought it was you
That did this to me
Unstitched, undressed
Poetry leaking out of
Bursting white seams
In a single room occupancy
Off the old iron mill
Sweating golden beads of
Locked yearnings
To the hum of
The box fan in the
Balcony window, turning
Into lightbeams made of two chillis
And a dried lime
Patient, green, still
A corner store watch and
The kawala I tied myself
Waiting
On the windowsill
The homework I finished
You heard me? I finished it
Tucked in an old laptop
From a secret warehouse
Past the old house
Past the trap house
Where a tall Haitian nergaght’yal
With a B.S. in Computer Science
Wires lightbeams too
I swear it on Astvatz
I thought it was you
But here on this Yalda
Long after you folded
The fire burns free...
For jan, all along
It was actually me