Transplant

Day 19

Am I an immigrant in my own body? 

I know that I am a writer more than I know my name

Maybe the poems don’t want to be written anymore

And maybe I’m drowning out the ones that to:

The heavy thuds of moved boxes and the expletives I drop alongside them

The silence the stars cannot help but take up when there are no skyscrapers to evict them

The aching beating of my displaced heart

What use is identity if we don’t act on it?