for the mishearings

oh, thank god he said, cone. my fists bloom
flat palms to spoon back into my pockets,
though the scorpion scratching my cochlea
continues like a skeptic testing theories.

when you speak to me my body is kali
(or cathedral), you call me home (or call me
homie), whisper let me see evening (or
let me be evergreen?). my guess is good as

obscured. i listen. i swear. i am present,
a continent in conference with the ocean.
my ear: a water-logged offering of flesh.
each conversation: a communion of carnage.

my two brown hands, two loaded seedlings
waiting either to blossom or to bruise—

Contributor Notes

Meagan Washington is a Black poet and Houston native. She received her BA from the University of Houston and an MFA from Hunter College, where she teaches composition and writing about literature. Her work appears in Bodega and The Recluse.