Stormy Wildflowers
protected- September 2023
—
soothing bricks of stone
blocked against the streets, slathered with paint of blue, jagged marks of gray
scratches adorning tops and cracks along the lines, each block carved slow, sedulous
breaking darks in blinds for infinite rain and rumble knocking across edges
chipped off, scattered across the stormy streets
depths, running through hills
marked with grief, buried of tombs
old and tall, forever tears
drawn fingers across initials
made with rough sledgehammers
brush of lighter cloud from blooming knuckles, night
of Him watching, a zipper
to His mouth
hear His sons pound and toil
push nails in concrete
feel their elbows scarce pop under pressure
Burn with oil and lit fuse
a matchbox and sandpaper
a wall,
proud with armor
stained with red
the day / spring comes– November 2023
—
the day spring comes / i will wait as you lift / rose petals to your mouth and
taste / the sweet syrup of cherries.
the day spring comes / your arms will lift and praise / God for His
kind embrace / to see blossomed leaves fall softly / down until
only earth will separate / us from Him
the day spring comes / blue suns will implode / on our spinning rock
until the night / no longer watches over with her / warm
comfort. / tired fire heats / the space between us / before trees
pile with snow / and leave us wild alone
the day spring comes / your berried skin / is cursed
with / poison / straight rashes / like streaks / of aged
acrylic paint / decorate your back. / i peel back layers /
from crops of aloe / and silently spread / the angel’s gel
the day spring comes / i will send you / a letter
of light. / a clearing of daisies / bright yellow beneath / the
smoldering sun / and a path of kneaded stones / leads you
to my cold / abandoned / eyes
the day spring comes / your palms will fill with water / streaming
down your fingers / falling curtains satin to the touch / our
touch / and your light brown lips will bend down / quiet / to fill
with juice from / the sour fruit
the day spring comes / old clocks will stop / their winding
turn / break down and / crumble / into sand / firm
enough to sculpt / grand temples / from their
weakened form. / i will build us both / a home
the day spring comes / your crackling hair / will fall
deep to the floor / leaving / a barren scalp / which calls
my hands / to feel. / its ridges / make me wonder / what
concrete walls / you must collide with / often
we will stay / hear the whistling wind
beg us to hide / and pray. / that spring / will come again
what it meant to call somebody sister– November 2023
—
she who stands across the wide dinner table smiling, sparks
forever red striking from her squint; she who under
face of orange lightning, ducks quietly beneath the sheets
under our twin bed, repeating 1 2 3 , as if time
will slow with her undulating breath
nights i hide with windows covered by green-toned blinds, her
arms soft across my back, hands enveloped in mine; golden
glittering nails, of sunset tones decorating tired fingers; maybe
someday she will repeat rhymes to calm the blood-soaked rhythm of
fallen snowy trees
sisters are made to love, glued to my palms
black marked up, twisted Sharpie — permanent
rubbed with clear water from this rocky stream; we
fished here once; dipped with her crumbled lavender
soap, but in our bowl of water lilies
i love you, our words for apologies, she
said more than i heard; drawn in
dust bunnies and leftover bread from
every yesterday;
i love you, lively forests at dusk, before
quartz litters the slated sky; redwood scents
tickle my nose, leaves creep deep
into my throat
i pour her sand into the river
dark gray sand
gray, gray, gray sand
mouth i love you as it falls
goodnight, she whispers from her side of the room, through
puffs of warm air passing by her lips; she speaks
goodnight, goodnight, goodnight— the ticking in my skull
will never end
dear f, old letters left beneath my desk, she seems
forever tied to her words
roped down to slabs of ink cut from her
tongue— dear, my dear, dear f
when i look at my burning sister - November 2023
—
when i look at my burning sister—
i see in her a million threaded swords
soaked in the blood of infants with
their palms held tight over their ears
she rolls in the puddles of baptism fire
rubs drops against the flaps of her skin
scratches off the layers and leaves
screams beneath her fingernails
when i look at my burning sister
i keep my eyes off the floor,
to save myself from the ashes
she hides herself in black fabric
covering marks from when we’d hold each other
clasp our frozen fingers
under the fluffed up bed
breaking our paper blanket apart
to share
Five Things - August 2023
—
Five things you can see.
The egg-shell walls, ornate with dust and covered in peeling crests. A door handle, about halfway down, painted a light golden hue as from a sunset. And beside the door lives a closet, carved into the wall and struck by a pole from side to side. The pole holds on it the third item: sky blue hangers weak but balanced. On the door of the closet is a half-full length mirror, just a bit too high for my liking but offering a reflection nonetheless. The glass is pristine, obviously new as seen from the absence of cracks.
And number five is her jacket, black striped with white, comfortable, the scent of strawberry lemonade, all too perfect for me.
Four things you can feel.
The gray blanket draped over my lap, soft as a bunny. I touch it in effort to reaffirm its existence. Then item two: my shorts against my legs. They curl at the ends—goodness don’t they need ironing. But still quite pleasant to wear. Then I notice my own shirt against my shoulders, and I tilt my head to the right to feel it against my face. A rough fabric, but not burning.
And then the fourth: the warmth emanating from you. Sitting right across from me, looking at me with those hopeful eyes. Your chest moving up and down at a bit too quick a rate.
Three things you can hear.
The grinding of metal inside the room, unshakeable noises from the massive air conditioning compartment which I continue to assert is too large for so small a space. The roar of a motorcycle zipping past the streets without a care in the world. Evoking fear for everybody in its way.
And your words. Flowing in the background of it all but still flowing. Asking me to breathe.
Two things you can smell.
The pungent reek of the city streets invading through the window.
And those chocolate chip cookies we baked an hour ago.
One thing you can taste.
I lick my lips.
Something different in the air when you’re around.
You take my hand
fingers wrapped around fingers
tightly squeezed
and I focus on our heartbeats.
the anger chokes itself out
I rest my heavy head on your shoulder
and scream
girls- September 2023
—
We are destined to be roses
Pretty and loving and persistently yours
group us into uniform bouquets
Of gold and blush and fire
Piss, shame, blood
Take your pick
So our thorns may be plucked from our stems
Our ends trimmed short
Till we are left feeble, softened
in the sitting salty water