(i.) when i throw quarters i wish i knew what the universe tasted like in my tea; and then i wished that i could hug my babushka & dedushka again for the last time before their hourglass ran out. i wish i could still witness the way the light dribbled like honey in that foreign land familiar street. Back then I was taught that love was contagious by nature, that love was unconditional- ---maybe that’s what the universe really tasted like to begin with.
(ii.) when i throw dimes i- wish that my antidepressants were more like leftover echoes that i’d eat for dinner. i wish i hadn’t said that but it’s too late ‘cause this ode is too busy tripping over it’s own shoes; i wish my poem knew how to tie it’s own shoelaces, and knew how to say grace. but most of all... i wish there was a softer metaphor to lower me into this hurting; just like the leftover echoes
(iii.) when i throw nickels i wish i could erase the murals of flashbacks behind my eyelids; before i fall asleep. i’m convinced that they’re to blame for my eyesight that acts more like a broken compass than a disability. i wish i was blind to the way the world spoon feeds us the dark; like it’s a requirement for us in order to flower into people. i wish i could fish my name from infinity’s belly. please just never wish for infinity.
(iv.) when i throw in pennies i wish i wasn’t their daughter. i wish i didn’t have russian strings and american footsteps for bloodlines; i wish i was born a moon somewhere, orbiting or worshipping the the color of space, which is coincidentally the color of poets the color of ink. i wish my forbidden fruit was poetry, i’m glad it isn’t.
(v. ) and i think, i will always wish for quicker deaths.
I don't write like I used too, and I miss the dark.