to connect with extended,
estranged, and incarcerated
family. I type in half-
remembered names before
I register we share
the same surname.
Their profiles are as private
as family secrets.
A hand-shaped bruise
on a cousin’s jaw, grape jelly
purple. The basketball team’s worth
of miscarriages between aunts.
My uncle’s trunk full of women’s
lacy underwear and a gun
pointed finger-like
at my mother. The marbled
mispronunciation of my name
in grandma’s mouth.
My first kiss was an older girl
cousin; her sole critique of my form:
too hard. The absence of
memories eclipse the real ones.
The last time I visited
family was on the other side
of a screen. I scrolled through albums
full of people I didn’t recognize
that looked like me.
I didn’t heart
their posts because you can’t love
someone you don’t know.