Spring Cleaning

 mud
 on my summer dress
 washed a thousand times
 the brown spot, which is supposed to be
 white and pure like the rose I gave my mother
 the tile floors are red and I am an off-white egg
 my yolk drips onto your head
 your laugh fills the walls
 we are in a cave
 somewhere
 home
 white
 is forgiveness,
 is hope, is surrender,
 my mother took the petals
and turned them red just like her lips
how remembering that always was
moment of being sucked dry
i scrubbed for days
i am white
wearing
mud

Washing Up 

my hands    are dirty

I’ve been

digging

hit bone, hit earth,

hit rock, hit bone
You are gone
deep in Earth’s

core,

away from the

center

of my heart
You are dead
my hands

are dirty

I’ve been

cleaning

up your

blood

from the rug
Red finger tips

like my mother’s

 

lipstick
I thought I was her

then there was

you

consuming me

like a

fresh

catch
I bit the bait

but never bled

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.