There are so many concepts
I don’t understand so many theories
I can’t fathom

I don’t know little things
like the number of
people in my town or whether

my maternal side is republican
or otherwise. I don’t know what
it’s like to be a black woman, or

gay or bipolar or constantly
anxious I don’t know the history
of the word “liberation” and I

don’t know all the things I take
for granted. I don’t understand
full neglect or abandonment I don’t

understand “real fear” I don’t
always know how to talk to people,
especially the smart ones, don’t know

how to express my emotions or stand up
for myself or set “boundaries”
or “work-life balance”.

But.

There are some things

I do know.

I know what kind of tree
is perfect for the nook of my back
what kind of grass a cushion.

I know how to tilt my face to kiss the sunlight
how to wiggle my toes into the dirt
how to say hello to ants.

And I’m here, pen in hand,
and
that’s what makes me human.