I’m told I must squeeze Oakland
out of my California body,
affix domesticated skin

like a fur coat I can’t & don’t want
to buy in this grid squeezing from all sides.

When I find my heartbeat
within suburban walls,

will I mutate
into a reflection

who wears a feline against winter
slapping my future self
on a replicated lawn?

Will I ever transverse
down Temescal sidewalks

as an alien
in the warmth of slaughter?

I’ll no longer know
the shade of oak branches
that wraps around my frame

into a Lake Merritt hug
if only Oakland darkness had hands
to build my body a home

on a street of roots
I for now find
my breath & pulse & voice.