I urged him to sit down,
pulled him into a quiet corner,
and held onto his wrist.
It was like a river.
Marielle had lips like parentheses.
Every time Henry bit her,
she would bleed.
I used to read fairytales to him late night on the phone,
the same nights we learned to curl our tongues to form the letter U,
He used to tell me that I was like the color white,
and balance on the balls of my knees,
his eyes would accompany his waist,
a freak show,
and before we knew it,
day had come.
A young girl in Iraq grabbed the hand of a solider in September,
She told him that she would dedicate his voice to a forest fire,
told him that he had been the last to possess the air of her tiny town,
The flame of a candle that allowed her to count the particles of her mother’s bones,
She told him that he had made her faith in a God feel like glass,
And caused her ears to entertain the sound of footsteps chasing footsteps
the dust beneath her holding the meaning of ashes to ashes.
She cupped his hands and kissed in the place where water should’ve been held,
and asked how it felt.
When I was younger, I told my Mom that I was an angel,
She said, you’re a sweet girl.
So, I tore up the insides of a pillow,
Snuck into the bathroom when the sky fell,
Stiched the feathers into my back,
Stood on the windowsill when she woke
And as her eyes opened,
All that was said was,
Do you believe me yet?
Made this while loungin’ , needless to say— I’m not a musician but I do like to play with sound.
:) tell a really great story
Henry was a kind boy,
Eyes comprised with the faces of fifteen black boys,
spewing blood from their ears,
Filling empty houses.
Henry was not kind to me.
Give me back my tiny toes, and diffused demeanor. I want back my mind of air.