Understand sound within sound
To begin knowing your own.

I no longer think hopes and dreams die
They float around this Earth waiting
Waiting until we give birth to our children
That's when they will reappear
Wrapping themselves around them
Creating an Impenetrable force field
Giving our children the strength we lacked
Helping them achieve the desires
That rumble in their bellies
They will allow the beam of light
The one we will pass down to them
To burst out of their chest
Not fearing the moon's envy
For their light will be the brightest
It will guide bodies
To their own hearts destinations
Stories will be written on staggering walls
About the children of failure who rose up
Who had so much passion
That they created their own light
Led love and happiness
To the doorsteps of many
Brought misery to its knees
With constant humble human nectar
That is what our children will be

My mother was a writer.
I remember her,
papers spread out upon a bed sheet in the sand,
stacked pebbles protecting her work from the wind
as I made drip-castles at the water's edge
and braided crowns from wild poppies.
I would run to her so she could
rub grape sunscreen into my sandy shoulders
and I asked her once,
“Mama,
is that poetry?”
and she said “No little one,
you are poetry,
this only tries to be.”
and I thanked her,
and ran back to the water
to search for flat stones to skip,
and thought no more of poetry.