Shards of memory
still draw blood,
razor sharp reminders
of another life,
when you loved me
and I loved you.
I could sense gravity on my skin then,
hear the color flush into the blooms,
anticipate the grasshopper's solo
before its first note–
but that was back when
you loved me
and I loved you.

He crushed her fortune cookies
one after another,
peeked into crevices
where the tender things lived,
plundered her secrets
like Godzilla out for an evening stroll,
leaving only flavorless dust
and damage in his wake.

I will never be able
To fully describe the way
The morning sun
Rises like your stuttered phrases
Yet my hands find their way
To yours,
Like flowers bending
To face the light.

In the folds of the hills
and hollows
of my mind,
I remember a time
when you were free.
You were of the sweetest color
known to me.

No man could catch you;
I'm not even sure we tried.
It was such a sight
just to watch you
spread your wings.

Like a bird
you could fly
circles so high,
blue as the sky,
and free as the wind.

I knew someday
you would leave,
fly away,
no longer free;
my mountain bird
on a breeze.

r ~ 6/30/14

hay came in rectangular bales
when I was younger, we used
to stack them and make forts
shooting imaginary indians or vc
depending on the weather.

sunny days we killed indians
rainy days were for killing vc.

the war ended and there were no vc
I grew to respect the indians
to learn their history, my history
watching the news, seeing
white men killing indians again
at a place called wounded knee
once again-wounded knee, dad said.

nowdays hay comes in round bales
the vc are our friends, and the indians
aren't worth shooting anymore.

r ~ 7/2/14