Makélélé

The world assumes that her child is the child.

Solidarity in loneliness: I slurp the balcony off melting concrete, and my straw hurts like hell.

Transition from dream to reality requires a jump, and from reality to dream a leap.

“I want my train to crash into yours,” guffawing stones and doing chores, “is that too much to ask?”

Jostled by the light, we retreat to our dorms, where the doula promises the world is not treacherous.

Arrived at freedom not freedom–o space, tell me what thou needest most.

Some of us rushed through, and some of us hopped over the turnstile. Some of us died, and some of us survived.

Only a handful lived.

I wanted to be Rooney or Makélélé when I grew up, but in dreams I jogged with Henry on the balcony.

What it boils down to is the eyes fixed on the eyes on the 3-by-4 photo on a card, detecting similarities with a pinch of salt and repressed spite.

Our age gap is your insult, and I want you to stop spitting at me this second.

Maman is busy consoling Makélélé. Or Rooney. But Rooney is no Makélélé.

Maman assumes that her Makélélé is the Makélélé.

No matter how much my fingers dig, there is no gold coin in my pocket.

Maman doesn’t let me play with the neighborhood’s counterfeiters.

As kids, we thought our dreams of becoming were sacred.

I thought that my Makélélé was the Makélélé.

We were both wrong, Maman and I.