To speak of my pains is my release from which. It is not merely my drudgery within the muds of self-wallowing. It is an awakening when I read my own words and learn who I am in that moment. It is a point from which to move on, a stepping stone.
The summer freckles the boys, tucking in the grasses in their masses, forgetting what their mothers sang. Their love burns in blood-stream blaze, becomes heat and nothing else and nothing else. Our sun set late, so they pray for consenting girls that feed wrists into freckled hands to brand themselves, bruised and brown.
A response to the line "The grasses forgetting their blaze, and consenting to brown" from 'A Sunset of the City' by Gwendolyn Brooks. The line is embedded in the last words of each line.