tomorrow i will know still your voice, how your silence splits words into pieces, as you break me with your collared sweaters and polka dot socks: tell me i am floating, question my Gods, forbid me from touching your church elders; your parents’ Lord.
today i will know your laughter, a tad frail: the voice of an unsteady deity - your fingers - never stilling a pen, nor sketching a hand - whittling my own: your chin trembling as you chide me for their largeness; i show you their erasures: your lack of wayward lines; your work of an artist.
yesterday i tell you to sing, you tell me not to - you arm yourself and lock away in your room, say your poetry terrible, wrong, un-joyful, cross-averted; they cracks in all the wrong places like your flimsy hands, like your hopes massive-disintegrating like the feebleness in your dust-allergic bodies; your lack
of lungs: brittled long by heavy-handed words and thin brushes: you with death - the un-wayward stroke: You who are sickly, whose quiet breaths reach where we cannot find
and find the places where our gods long to be touchable.