THE SQUATTER

By Farah Lawal Harris, 2024

A squatter lives in my shoulders

she tore down the drywall

and built boulders,

armor for words of judgement to pierce less

armor to present as fearless.

A squatter lives in my shoulders

I left my body for a few days

and she appeared.

Don’t she know I live here?

I tried and tried to use my keys.

Can you believe she called the police on me?

I didn’t know at the time

how to reclaim what is mine.

A squatter lives in my shoulders,

there are no longer boulders, but pebbles.

We coexist.

Some days, I kick the pebbles into flowing veins;

other days, I scuff my shoes and the pain remains.

Over tea, the squatter said

it all starts with me.