Gabriel Miranda

 

One by one I count my blessings like fingers

I am loved,

But I am lost:

I’m caught in a pang between the ideals

Because a compass broken towards home

never points towards the suburbs

 

I catalyze in reflections –

Pitted between binaries

In body and mind

(Like dialectic),

I account for myself in negations

Framed through this prism

I read as counter-normative,

But in a traditionalist sense –

Distorted

Like a foggy borderline

between two liquids of separate densities