My hair frays and sticks out like weeds,

but they are really black silky thread.

Slip them through the small hole of a needle,

and sew my holy jeans together.

Mama says that some girls don’t fit into

the 268,596 square miles that make up this state.

Some girls will always be on the outside of this land,

and our roots will always be an ocean away.

Cicadas wake me up at night here in Texas,

so I crawl out to my porch and count the stars,

and I imagine somewhere a Texas girl that sticks out

like a weed with her Texas yellowstar body,

will hear me cough up bluebonnet seeds from my lips,

and plant my own roots into the fresh soil of the white people

and blue rain land marked with a streak of red and

stitched together with a single angelic star.