“You can’t spell violence
without love,”
he told me once,
and I believed him.
I loved myself
black and blue
alone in a room
for years,
alone in the basement
of my body,
compartmentalized,
separate,
discrete.

“You can’t spell union
without no,”
I tell her now,
and she listens.
She loves me
brown and green
all the filth that I am,
all the garden manure
and kitchen refuse
of my mind,
composting,
becoming,
continuous.