Adrianna Gordey

I Stalk Instagram

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.