harvest

Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up – Galatians 6:9 

she tread carefully through the dead and desolate
that crowded the streets lit by scented candles lined with graves
as people raked leaves into gutters not knowing the oak tree that
once sat in the middle of her yard was the place she had her first kiss
she fell from a branch she called theirs after reaching too far trying to save
a crow’s egg that became the bed sheets of when she fell a little too hard into love
her bleeding knees from falling were healed with alcohol from the medicine cabinet
but with her bleeding heart, she drank; carried the crosses
her own mother sculpted from the hollows of her cheeks
blood didn’t flow from her veins or pump from her heart but nicotine
she counted time on a watch she spun of copper thread; tried to cut with the knife
she found in the bottom drawer of his father’s dresser after he left the night she turned 16
she drowned in a sea of toxic paint from the unfinished walls in every gray room
she washed her clothes in; blended into skin till they saw her cemented into an existence
that told her she was alone with only the bandages from the times she tripped
from the heaviness of psychedelic memories to remind her
she walked around with bones made of the nickels she had to count in front of the
cash register to buy analgesics for herself and a hot meal for the man
sitting outside the store in rags
she passed faith and mercy to broken bodies, carefully taped herself back
together each time she became the cracked crow’s egg she kept trying to save
she drank coffee to convince herself she was awake and lived off of burnt
book pages from when she lit a match made from her old oak tree to see at night
and locked herself into rusted keyholes; no one ever found the right words to fit
she whispered hallelujahs and held the definition of doxology close in her pocket
healed till the only scars left were from guitar strings she plucked with conviction
to the beat of a war drum that she heard outside her window every day and
the taxi cabs of mustard yellow asphyxiated the slumped shoulders of silhouettes
that walked on curbs painted with blood graffiti and stains from shuffling monotony
but she never doubted when she slept on the bench in the park she played in
and prayed in since she was three

that she couldn’t be fixed and saved; prayed a bleeding amen to make doubt of life OK

famine thinned bodies but she reaped a harvest the same day she remember to have faith

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