Walls were pressed and hammered
Therapy for workers, curing pangs of comforts
They sat between fleshy webs of knuckles
On lunch break they would pluck pouts of moldy fruit
If only she could hear summer of 98’
Glimmering puddles and sinkable reasons
She could test her strength with Goldfish and a drippy, chocolate cupcake
Matching deserts of skin covering joints young enough to bend
They spat against another, sweating. Tapping
Smoother than honeymooners in a convention center
Frigid or uncontrollable, no one could tell
The breezeway connected teeth, the left chipped in the corner from
A muddy softball game. Their team won 7-2.
Wide enough to squeeze uncooked macaroni shells between
Became the dusky neighborhood game.
Transitioning humans, males most likely, whispered fears between that gap.
He was different. He waited in outside the doors, near the trash bins
With grumpy janitors, muttering, “fuggin’ kids” and things like that.
She loved how ugly they were then.

Her thoughts trailed him, what was left of him, as he paced
Searching for the mug he left there, no
There, holding wet tissue, no
Soggy cupcake liner
Cupcake, shortcake, cake, cake liner
Rainbow or musty brown from 346 degrees Fahrenheit
Baking Therapy Class held in her kitchen
Maybe because she could pound at the dough and it would never fight back
She neglects the finale of rumbling coffee exhale since she knows
He’d never come back. Not here or any party she threw.
But on another hard drive she saved photos of September 20th.
She’ll flip mindlessly through a Cosmopolitan, until she can forget his name

I want to go back.
Forward rather, under
Vapor, sweet as symphonies
Rising, falling coincidentally with each breath mother took
The lifting of her cushioned chest, cradling my achy, heavy head

After she tucked me in (feet covered, as if the air kissing my
Toes might become a switch to conscientiousness)
I lied to her, I made her believe
That I, too, rotated under transparent sheets, dreams
Twirled into freedom from earth.
But I laid behind locked bars
Crying and continued to plead guilty.

A blanket, sturdy, protective
It sits, at least I think it does. Three-sided and pushed up against a wall
I wonder if I put it there.
Holding the key to dreams, she cradles me in the darkness
A blend of color and mystery from the lamppost glowing through the windowpane
Morphing around the streaks, marks left by some knock-of brand of windex

Through this glass, mother caught my sleepless lie
Remorseful and gentle she cradled me in streams of flashes
Familiar and warm lights of the street cars
A driver seat of drunks, or late-shift hospital workers
Flying somewhere else, anywhere else
Later nights I would distinguish between the two.
Not very far off, without breath, she spoke of
thick dreams and sweet souls
she wondered and gleamed
At that blankets with holes

Released from salty skies or trees,
Crashed into darkened plains,
A treat indeed to hear the speech
Of finches freed from chains

They fluttered sweetly through the
Months that sometimes end with 'ember'.
As they fly straight through sunrays
Sparks cling if they're remembered.

And as the moon howls lullabies
And tunes her fiddle neatly,
Feathers flap and fold up high
For evidence fights so sneakily.

How will they climb the Redwoods
While they're cherished down below?
And, pray, partake in meals and feasts
With seedlings in a row.

Wishful wonders stem from songs
Of solar sons and sorrows,
They dart the pending prayers
And warmed baths of tomorrow.

Papa, how long will you sit there?
Cavities, or trophies of wilder days. Keep kids off drugs, right?
Remnants of teeth rot between hills of lifeless grey flesh
Moist as the dust that stood to search (unsuccessfully) for fresh light

Nothing moves anymore
Except for the 41, Guyanese invertebrates scuttering around unfinished floors
All dirt, more like home than yours. They learned you long ago.
They wait for your chair to lift and continuously tire

Sometimes before the hours tip I hear you, or try to
You play the dances in your head
Just like swallowed tangos and serenades for mama
She always said you could sing

I fought for the top of your feet
My place, where my toes hold on tightly so I’d never slip away
Just like I gripped wrinkles in your smile, pulling me down
Down past moonless flights. No such pedestal stood.

Mid-yawn, we breathed in springtime
I left a piece for you, buried in an injection
I lost my crown that day. Pads of my hands warmed as I sunk my
Head lower into the crook of my elbow, waiting for melted snow.

I'd cover furrowed brows in blue ink, sometimes black
Grinning under the blotting recipes for tomorrow.
“I’ll love you always, princess! Love, Papa”
Later, words I’d beg to forget

Only hide behind orange cones and neon lining
Dead tangles, weeds. Somewhere in the middle
Of a dump-truck’s load
American, frosted ****** breathe comfortably.
Frostbitten pepperoni scattered beneath the rejected ceiling.
Ancestors are planted, but if not, roam away.
Whatever is visible beyond shoulders
Seems like dirt, like sand.
It wanted to peek through dusty, unwashed windows
Cracked paint on the corners
And the middles.
The people who live here fantasize about privacy, mostly
Desperation for secrecy.
They plea for the interrogation from others
You can here voices calling from those broken boxes
Torn families obey roaring, ravishing, rainy, rippling red stops signs
Loud enough to wake internal questions, like
Why don’t they obey each other?
Pendulum-like terms slam the insides of skulls. Swinging.
Bob’s trajectory. Massive bob.
Winking at them as they sit and regret.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
Hiding behind orange cones lining up. People always obey green.

Sometimes, if I try, I hum between the tumbling
Hills of the world bracing domesticated beasts.
They graze and grunt all over again,
Entering slumbers following the daily sweep
Of lactic creeks, thin enough to guide tree roots.
Dusk is explained by the party of two, embracing the dividing sun.
Look left to see coral reef skies swim attempting to grasp what is to the right of the Sun:
Silhouettes outlining prayers flattening dimensions of rugged Mosques
Still dusty from wheat flour and patterned by uncooked lentils, that
Slipped through missing seams of Burlap, blackened from the hearth
Malleable as a result of dependency.

Though only half of my sight functions, I reason that
Earth shifts without you. Watching centuries and some odd
Years of changes, I yearn to know where you have gone.
I peer from the peacock’s tail, feeling the pulse of the
World tick away as the fearless pray to someone new.
Your countenance, I interlaced with feathered fingers
Depicts movements, curves. A shame to be without
Language to fill the contours of a nebulaic expression
Or swindling modifications.
You put me here. My eyes anyway.
Expecting me to retire along with buildings for your worship
Powdery paint has spilled and faded along with
Others who have modified your appearance, their someone new.

Even as the shadows swells
A million replicates of Io, moo and sway home, tired from the
Beating sun, to which eyes remain fixed.
One momentary memory visits.
Vision simulate traces of wonder, travelling on
Pathways believed to be conquerable. The people have learned
What I have not. They pause, breathe.

My mind is littered with prayers written on
Creamed paper, bound with nimble, bronzed fingers.
The prayers are written to no one in particular.
One starts: You and I grew under the same angry sun.
We eventually learned all that could be done was to bathe in the harsh rays and kiss the fizzling pools of summer.
I watch birds escape sharp whips of winter
Finally understanding urgency by way of survival.
You're no exception.
As they scan the sky in the spotted sun
I wonder why you aren't amongst them, searching for the answers you asked me for.
Your mind is sheltered by thorns, is scarlet like the rose, yearning to know what lay hidden between the sheets of petals, blanketed by the whispers of searching crows.