I strip my head of its graying fruit,
And weave a pen of dead strands.
I pool the ink from the
Thick tar of a midnight breeze,
And scrawl a message on your back.
Your breath escapes from the tunnel
Of your parted pink lips.
I know you lay shackled in a
Jailhouse of dreams, and yet I whisper
Into your slumbering ear before I
Etch the truth onto your figure.
Can you keep a secret?...
The whites of my flesh
Are yellowed and crumbling,
Aged pictures fresh,
Reflected in the pits of my
Irises.
The oceans of blue,
Gold flicked and brown,
Are speckled with dew.
Silver tears fall, freezing on
Gray grass.
The living corpses, skeletons
Dance behind
My eyelids; children with guns
Held to their quaking
Temples.
Death has entered through
My aching pores, spilling
Through my veins to se...
The horizon is red, a newborn sun of spilled wine and blood, cicadas chirping, thick air stirring. It was a hazy sort of day.
A red sky, they say, is cursed,
Though I was born under crimson heavens,
And still named Dhan'ya; blessed.
Once every lunar year, the clouds tint a cinnamon shade. Mothers lock their doors and paint the knobs with turmeric, fabled to ward of Manda. Evil spirits. We dress ...
Them.
Do they have no compassion?
Collecting my bitter tears to cash in
At the bank,
They pocket my pain.
Them.
My jaw rots with unspoken words.
Anger is green, glowing and stirred
As we protest, garmented in
Balls and chains.
Them.
We make the front pages, the radium girls,
Behind velvet curtains the story unfurls,
People buy popcorn and
Watch us drop.
Them.
Do they have no compassion?
What wi...
June 1945
The little girl's blissful innocence colored in the gray landscape with excitement. She swung from her Momma and Papa's hands, marveling at the way her giggles ricocheted off the ribbed tunnel. "Look, look!" She laughed. "See how tall my shadow is? One day, I'll be as tall as that, Momma. Taller than Papa!" The girl's silhouette stretched against the bent iron walls. Peering up at her mo...
The Child
The first thing I noticed were the bricks. They were... nauseating. No two were the same shade of pink, varying from blinding fucsias to cloudy pastels, making the house look like it fell through a car wash of paint. The lady who opened the door to greet me approached the same way. Happy, optimistic, endlessly vibrant. Her hair was dyed white blonde, her lipstick glittery rose, and her ...
Magic is what happens when the sun rises,
Dawn breathing golden dust onto rooftops.
In the morning, the bottles stay up on the shelf,
Locked away in a cupboard
Where they belong.
Magic is what happens when the sun blazes,
Bathing trees in a honey yellow glow.
At midday, a bottle or two's in the trash,
The rest in the cupboard
Where they belong.
Magic is what happens when the sun sinks,
The moo...
