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 her father’s dresser 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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sonder

I traveled the world in rags made of the paper bags
of paper books I carried, sewed together from
the stories, mistakes I made in life
the iris of each eye starts the
the lines that trace across faces
of paths that people have taken
to journey and traverse broken landscapes
and strangers to bleed into memoirs
but forgetting to write in
another line in the archive of my escapades
I’ve stayed in the street corner
of the rushed world I’d long forgotten to discover
rolling cigarettes of burnt book pages
breathing in the smoke I solidified in fear of
making life real
yet through the crowds of busy vagabonds
and shuffling feet
you took a moment and
stopped
to reach out your hand and
pull me into another uncertainty
and with that single touch and smile
you saved me

light bulbs

she lived a life of vacancy
and filled herself up
with lamp lights and graves
lining sidewalks
of ashtrays with dark edges
she carried watches and pistols
to count the times
she burnt and shot holes: mistakes
shredded blank paper into dust
after taping cracked alder twigs
she collected in jars of stained glass
from the cathedral windows
she threw rocks at
letting her legs fall through gaps
of fishing nets, bird cages
and regrets

she was a cognizant whisper
her world was a secret

syzygy (n). the alignment of celestial bodies

I believed for a moment
fate painted the skies with stars
to stop and align in the midst of our lives
because maybe we were infinity
the halcyon days of bliss
made solar systems the landscapes of our existence
and celestial bodies acknowledged our innocence
but mistaken was I to believe that fate would be so kind
to extend the time planets could be frozen in their orbits
maybe it was the uncertainty of life
but I pondered whether our wandering
in the galaxy of inconstancy
would last and I was afraid any moment could be the last
stars wrote cursive lines in the sky
that we thought were the story of the future
but every eclipse is temporary
and the alignment of our bodies
in syzygy was never meant to be
I endured the ineffable struggle to comprehend
that separation had always been written in our veins and

the lines of constellations