the things that rob us do not
kill. maim is to add my mother to
me, to attach blisters to my clgrandipped body.
headlines of 125—a man struck a woman’s
face 125 times last week, and i wonder
if she would have rather been uncon
sious. how it must feel to hold in your body the
strength to feed a crippled
skull. the things that rob us do not kill
because her wallet was still on her person but
what of the pockets. what if
they are full of pennies, each penny
a fountain wish, each fountain wish
a hope that her ancestors
passed her in red envelopes—
125 of them, all glistening and
fruitful, all unruly and ravenous.
the things that rob us do not
kill, meaning that i am a
poet with a few dollars to my name,
meaning that i am paying a sinful
amount of tuition, meaning
that i spent 3 hours crying about
hate crimes, meaning that i felt
like the page would hold me.
i don’t take the bus anymore.
the things that rob us do not
kill.
i threw away all my short shorts.
the things that rob us do not
kill.
i text my friends my location
when i go out.
the things that rob us do not kill,
but my partner held my
wracking frame last night, coasting
through the miles of grand avenue to
burn his hand on something
untouchable. it is a fire to stoke,
and one they cannot extinguish.
Giovanna Lomanto is a poet living in the Bay Area.