there's grief under the wing

a poem from September 2022 / that I could have written yesterday

Street Art / Vila Madalena // São Paulo with my Godfather, João Batista /// May 2016

---

there's grief under the wing 
of my scapula
(and) diamonding at the crest
of my solar plexus 
it pools in my feet-soles and nobs at the throat

it goes by Christopher
now
but it has had other names

Mother, is one
Ana
is another
Patrick
Patrick for years now Patrick
since the suicide
and Peter, several times over Peter 

I am trying to unlearn this agreement-compulsion 
to owe 
the universe 
suffering
(equal or greater suffering) for every 
joy
I get
Sometimes I pay this suffering in advance
but when I do it never 
feels like 
enough
And I am this cosmic debtor
and I don’t like to owe 
anything.

I cant just Have a good thing 
I need you to know 
that I worked hard for it 
I need you to know 
that I
Earned it
It wasn't handed to me
But what 
if it were?
Maybe I’d be the jerk 
I think I'd be
or maybe