What still lives

by KB

Sergio Lapunin

After the Texas Winter Storm of February 2021

The leafless oak trees. The junipers hanging down, insisting on being caught in my hair. The splintered leaves sagging on red oaks choked by old christmas lights. The hackberries, perfectly aligned on the wooden pointless fence. What is a fence but a boundary, but a harsh message to stay out? The ball mosses outnumbering the leaves on the battered oak tree. The cacti, mostly brown but still green in the middle. A fence with crispy shrub & crape branches hugging it. Small trees that remind me of nights where I had central heat. I am a descendent of logical Black folk that survived illogical conditions centuries ago. & then again. & then again, I’m sitting on the couch, sending texts to people I don’t know. I check in after an illogical winter storm asking Are you okay when I myself haven’t considered the question. They pillage the city like they pillage  the trees: up to make new boutiques & coffee shops, up to make the best barriers money can buy. My best barrier is the Black skin I wear when carrying a city on top of me. I acknowledge this grief today. The mexican plum, still downturned but blooming does too.

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KB is a Black queer nonbinary miracle. They are the author of the chapbook HOW TO IDENTIFY YOURSELF WITH A WOUND (Kallisto Gaia Press, 2022), winner of the 2021 Saguaro Poetry Prize. They are a 2021 PEN America Emerging Voices fellow. Follow them online at @earthtokb.