Tiptoe on eggshells
yolk spills onto the floor
where she soon follows.

She's a wind-up toy
spins like a top
unravels at the seams.

You can't fix what's wrong with her.

She loved his work calloused hands,
the way he tipped his hat to strangers,
and his rain-soaked kisses.

She hated sweet tea,
collard greens,
and the word, 'Y'all.'

They packed up and moved to the South.

The mess we make- humans,
stumbling, killing, creating.
Writhing fear and beauty.

Humans: laughing and crying,
living and dying, shouting and singing
with loud voices up to the heavens.

On this blue orb, creating wonderful, dreadful chaos.

The door shut in her face
another day out of place
she sits alone inside herself.

Behind those electric blues
no one has a clue
what storm she's brewing.

It's time to seek shelter.