after Camille T. Dungy

I bathe my tongue in syrup.
The rest of my body in sugaring
light, black leaf, smoke poplars, sulfur.
There is a stain on me that will not wash
out. No matter what a river says you cannot
flow in the direction of want all your life. Who
do I blame if not the shadow over the house, if not
the blade of his hands, if not the blade of the moon’s
light as it watched everything. if not the holler of night
turning to day, if not the room of my weeping, if not myself?

Dani Janae is a poet and journalist from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Her work has been previously published in Longleaf Review, SWWIM, Palette Poetry, Dust Poetry Magazine, among others. She lives in South Carolina.