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.

The Pull

never used the room we had
    to grow sunflowers
instead, it rained
    drenching your curls

flattening my face

green filled the space
     but yellow never surfaced
lost in tall grass, i cried
     you rode the leaves into sky

i waited, below

winter came, all was barren
     your breath chilled my bones
i sucked in your air
     like when you vacuumed

like a madman

yet crumbs, hair, lint, and dirt

     remained

i lay on black carpet
     with a blue heart
you stare with black eyes
     whirlwind of dust drags me
all the way back to you

Wanderer

Wanderer. I dream of parallel places, things, realities, I daydream into the night. If I am not here, with you, I am somewhere else, alone. You become fuzz, like the static channel on the TV. I picture that, not this. Hope for a better future, past, present. Wanderer. The grass is greener when my face is. Have you ever felt like a color? I always thought you’d be blue. Wondering what happened to your smile, I dream of lush gardens with plants for teeth. You are there, somewhere. Wanderer. I don’t know where I am, but I know you are here. I feel the stubble of your chin, the freckle on your nose, the warmth of your face, your blue blood. We are here, eating leaves, ever so careful not to pick sweet fruit. 

Lifeguard

you
brought the
   blood
and home-
        made salt

it stung
when you
       pricked          me
with that
dirty
needle

I gargled
    salt water           for days
while you
      watched

dehydrated, I
      waited
for the
water
    from your
veins

shriveled up
                 on my
bedroom carpet
    salty
    water
    pour
     ing
from my eyes
 you        watched,
        you waited

current
takes my
                                flimsy
                    body
pulls it
with your tongue
                  lifeless
like the
     shell     of a       crab
              who sheds
exoskeletons
from

time

      to

 time

Trapped

I am here
in wind
I am gone
among leaves
and dirt,
I am buried
I am earth.

I search,
I dig
with dull shovels
for my curly
brown hair,
swallowed
by the mud
of rainy days.

I dig
and hit bone,
hit flesh,
hit earth,
but never find
arms
to pull.

Ink and Fire

There’s a poet using the same words as me. Stars are the fireworks that get us going. My predecessors scribble with my hands and paper is on fire. Black ink only. We read ourselves in the reflection. Telepathy. The ancestors speak to me through poetry and love. Whisper. Hear them through the trees. I am the line between two poets, connecting in the midnight sky. We weave together the words in which this life is written. The page is hot and angry. It weeps for me. I wipe tears and ink smudges into oblivion. What did it say? It glimmers into nothing like the stars. My mind forgets where it came from.

At night, hands remember when they grab the pen. I write in flames again.

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