Who would guess
a blow of smoke
in your lungs
replaced
a place for me
in your heart

Enter with me into the perfumed garden
And I shall share it with you to see.
The plants with their mating dance have already begun
Taking in the sun, the earth, the moon, the common bee,
The wind, the water – all apart of the garden’s flowering.
Every road, every footpath, every by-way does end
But they are all bordered with pinks, reds and wandering
Blues – waxed and un–waxed, tall and short with many a trend.
We are all a part of the flowering of the kingdom of Eden.
But this is my garden of truth.
A sharp swish of branch with no resin’s scent in this place.
No coarse weeds or taste of bark, only truth to sleuth
Out the fruit that lies under the covering of the human race.
Over there, do you not see the “pair” there?
Watch as they remember when they were placed on this earth.
In this garden, in those bodies, they move about here
Laughing, dancing, singing of their worth.
Their fruit undercover aching for the morning light.
Ripened pears wadded into clothing protected from frost,
Sweet melons, almost ripe, smothered in an airtight
Corsage, clinging to the fullest of crisscrossed stalks.
When the spring comes to this garden we see the perfection
Of balance between male and female qualities reflected
In the flowers’ blooms, a silhouetted combined reflection
Of male and female where the pears cling to the branch granted
Residence – Or the melon – sun bleached and **** to the taste.
For this is beauty, beauty without strength, the smallest of fingers
Reaching high into the sky, the pathway made of twigs,
Spiced heads, reddish pink stalks, with leaves like beggars
Straining to turn toward the lighted prigs.
Oh ye of little faith just look at the earth as the garden that it is.
Taste the fruit of nature’s wisdom and let spring come to your garden.
For it is we who renews the earth and all that we have to do to pass the quiz.
Use the earth’s resources wisely for we are the coachmen
Who drives the earth forward into the light.
We are like fruit clinging to a branch calling out our birthright –
This earth is our earth and we have only this chance to get it right.

If love were enough, I wouldn't be cold while laying here beneath the sheets of the twin bed I've been sleeping in since I was a child. I used to tell myself that one day I wouldn't need to fall asleep to the sound of my mother breaking dishes in the kitchen. If love were enough to my father she wouldn't have had to find herself barefoot on tile floors with ****** hands. If love were enough they wouldn't have needed to pretend that their Sunday mornings were spent renewing the vows they once made to themselves before forgetting what forever feels like. If love were enough they wouldn't be sleeping in different cities every night. I have been trying to find a way to tell you that the cracks in my ribcage have been there long before I met you, broken from the nights I've spent screaming at my father to look into my mother's eyes and save her. Broken from the times I begged them both to plant seeds back into a soil they've stopped harvesting. Broken from the times I thought my existence was a burden they no longer had the patience to deal with. Broken from the times I wished I could be a forever they could sink their fingers into.

...But I told myself that it would be different for me. I told myself that I wouldn't be sleeping alone by the time I turned 18. That love would come to me in the form of someone who would actually make a promise and keep it.  I told myself that If love were enough you would be here tonight. I just turned 18, and all i've learned so far is that love is never enough; I can't remember the last time my hands weren't shaking and I can't remember why your name always tastes sweet on my tongue when I say it. But I can remember you telling me that one day it would be you and me dancing in the kitchen on Friday nights, and I'm wondering if that's before or after I get glass in my feet.

They tried to break me, but this

blood that runs in me, is made of ink.

And these unbreakable bones, are made of poetry.


*Sandoval