then I was awake, raw, Help turning to

Well or Hey by my needy mind but my 

body rang Help, help, remembering August

same street, black bulb of early morning, a woman

screaming, a taxi driver spitting
Fuck, fuck, you, you fuck, my mind unable

to spin it into luck, luck, who, who luck just as 

my girl leaps up to the window pressing

her cheek to the glass to make sure, making

sure in her sleep, I don't know of what, but

bless the cheek, tho last night she turned to me

pupils wrapped in fog while I lifted from

our bed  You okay baby? but I was up looking

out the window for the scream or Trayvon

 or a street made entirely of bodies, a river

I'd have to walk on the next day and float,

almost forgetting in the new day's light how I

stood at the window last night, timeless, searching

for a body to pin the scream and tapping

the glass while my lover turned her bare

back to me, a dark moon, while I was

the precipice from which I hung, while

the silence below fused its bones

and I knew the world was full 

of women at windows, that the world

was an overflowing rush of bloodwater

and my breath was where it unfolded

and became, and I knew it was impossibly

possible that there had been no sound at all,

that I'd risen violently from my own peace

simply because I was a woman

and there was a window

simply because a woman

has been her own window for so long

tapping, tap‐tapping

on the glass