Refusing to cry for your past
I try to usher you into a softer place.
Falling like confetti out of happy hands,
you stop, drop and claw at the ground
like you’ve lost something precious.
Dipping back into that wound,
a blanket of goose bumps as big as horns
cover my shinning bones
but don’t worry – you’re young, still have your milk teeth.
It won’t hurt as much for you.
A procession of ants – slow to love the sun, yet fast enough to leave.
That’s how I want you to be –
to shoulder the silence; lean into it so you’re comfortable with my cause.
Nosebleeds and flowers
The early bird that breaks its wing
Offering more wisdom in silence
You are more and you are less
where you talk about everything, yet know nothing.
The sheet falls about my neck like a cowl.
Soon it will be festooned as I fight sleep, but for now
it is gentle and limp
like your mess mixed with your mirth, unfolding like wet origami.
Old trash doesn’t glitter when it rains.
After it’s rained and cops a spray of sun,
that’s when you hear old trash bleating in the stinging heat.
You tell me we’re home
and I look for my feet in the water.
You tell me the ocean will do the teaching,
to slow us down to a tidal pace,
but all I got was salty water and a rusty hook in my heel.