I count gulls until they spasm
into numbers, until I grasp
a number never uttered. I ration
dignity like crackers to lastwhen my own words pan
dust into the mouth of a little gull.
I am a cracker to the plan.
Little gulls are black and full.Little girls are running around
in pink two pieces. I call for cover,
an unspecific temp job, brown
as the wanting of erasure.On the last day of work,
my boss said being black
is a box for checking. I smirked
and danced my hips inside the square.Little gulls feed me not.
I like beaches, and I like counting
until I reach a number rot-
ten with plans. I’m just loungingon a beach chair waiting
for the girls’ laughter as the gulls hang
like check marks. Boxing black slang.
My noise so liberating
it asks to be no one.