We teach ourselves

the warm scent of a cinnamon roll,

like love,

permits a glimpse of passion soon devoured.

Then, war. We’re against it—

therefore, on the losing side.

I want to wear a hat,

but it won’t fit my wavy skull;

a colorful society,

but it won’t fit my low self-esteem.

See? At every stage, the lesson:

in seventh grade, despair;

undergrad, despair;

writing a thesis,

an attempt to apprehend & subjugate despair.

We never read introductions to books,

always the acknowledgments,

weeping to see our names are not among them.