Stream of Consciousness (unedited) 

everything else blurs away like white static from televisions when i was growing up and september 11th happened and my mother’s face and the gray, so much gray. how did i find her after so many scenes and rituals and deep breaths? i found her standing right across from me at the wake, there were flowers swallowing up the room i was there, reading about nanny and everyone had tears in their eyes because it was so well written and beautiful and i missed her more than ever when i read about my sicilian grandmother, ancestor who shared my blue blue veins. i’ve been writing so much about my mother and the seasons and change, that i think real change is floating away from me before my very eyes and it’s scary, as scary as the gray, as the blue. soon it’ll be mother’s day again this year and i will think about how alive she is on paper but invisible in reality and wonder if she will read my book about her the day it gets published or will it sit on her kitchen counter while she dusts around it? 
you are rainbow, all the dim colors of night and i am still here waiting for woman with red lipped smiles and pointed eyebrows i watched you tweeze them in the mirror so many times behind but you looked away glass and pantyhose sheer black your perm looked at me with wide eyes and its curls puffed up at me almost like a cat who’s ready to attack. i ran away and never came back but you returned night after night in the glass mirror.

Sage

It doesn’t matter who
sweeps.
The crumbs stay
stuck on my    socks,
traveling with me
until a   vacuum
sucks them   up.

The grill pan   smokes.
Years rise  UP
toward my kitchen
ceiling
while I turn on the    fan
to      chase it all
away.

This might be,
me
erasing   memory…
while my aunt
inhales
the fog,
turns off lights,
takes out Grandma’s
wedding album,
places it next to
her    own.

I have my smoke.
Sage wakes my   mornings,
burning.
Smells like  the present,
Clears my    past
away into oblivion.

I’ll light it
every morning,
smoking in my    seashell,
because
every night,
she will cry.

Indigo Sun

The sun burns my skin. It is hot, strong, and smells of      fire. I cook, I bake, I let the      rays from the sky shoot into my     pores. I sweat. I burn, I tan. I am     bronze, I am olive, the color of my grandmother, the color of my     ancestors.

I look down at my     blue veins, the same ones which run along my     mother’s thin hands. The blood inside pumps, thick with vengeance, thick with the     sadness that I try to escape from. I fail. It lies     deep in my connective tissue. Indigo lines connect to my heart, connect me to     her.

The sky is aquamarine, with cotton clouds that float     effortlessly. I try to look up, but the sun blinds my eyes. As a     kid, I tried to look at the sun for as long as I could     stand. I was amazed by the fire, the light, the     burn. The heat warmed my     chilled bones.

Somewhere,     Lil is looking up at the same     sky and looking down at these same     veins.