Homeless by Sammi Yamashiro

The third threat of a lightning clap hovers me.
Lucky number three of the holy trinity—
one Godhead with His third set of arms mangled
in a trinity knot.
That is His perfection, the product of His fast fashion factory.

An allure of the charm. It chimes its dinner bell.
In my fever haze I cannot distinguish
if the contents are permissible, or ill behaved.

The sky is a roof, too—
The abundant greenery would suit me better,
clothe me with a seamstress’s hands, unattainable by mothers.
The cicadas beckon us to hear their organic song—
So why not listen?

If it were not for gravity’s downward tugging, or the wind,
the grass blades, the tree trunks
would be as they were originally:

untouched, virgin. Remote.
Meant for purdah. Exiled from the men's tenet.
My hair the curtain that conceals my chest

of treasure. Its key does not do as I command:
mimicking the ocean when it lunges toward the coast’s solidity,
receding once the sand grains hail their fire enough times.

I am the Shape that the Shape has made.
Whatever elements encounter me shall mold around my sphere.

Sammi Yamashiro is an Okinawan and Black-American poet. Her poems have appeared in The Rising Phoenix Review, Train River Poetry anthologies, and others. She is the author of "The Peach Pit Mask: A Poetry Collection". You can read her work on Instagram and Pinterest (@sammiyamashiro) or visit her website at sammiyamashiro.com.