Time Lapses & Entanglements of a Forgotten Past
There are old spiderwebs
In the corner of this room
from a spider that feigned interest
in our amaranth colored lives
cherry-picking tangible lapses of a
slow-moving picture
Old spiderwebs no longer hold a bridge to
A meal
Old spiderwebs dangle in a
hazy delicate grey
to never hold anything ever
Again.
The Sound and Silence of Death
I hiked up and over the bridge towards Chatham Road to
catch the 57, it goes by St. Margaret Mary’s Church
The twinge in my neck followed me from
my many pillows that failed to sustain my neck after
The night of the ear-piercing cries that filled the room
Death could not come quick enough for the bird
We are on Lake Ave waiting for the light to change
The hiss and whoosh of the bus evacuating passengers never failed to suspend in the air
Did anyone else hear it’s beseeched remarks for rescue?
As we laid there in tenterhooks
Ill at ease and sweaty I squeezed my eyes shut
Trying to unlearn the sound and silence of death
Among apartment buildings so close together that the walls are a
Performance act for privacy
I vacated the window seat to find
Solitude among the stale smell of books
As I thought of the rest of the birds and how they
weren’t chirping anymore
They were not blessing the blue skies and soft clouds with music
Instead, we were greeted with silence
Like a vigilance to their fallen one.
So I ask myself,
What will we find between the unkempt lawns that separate us?
Will we find the empathy we store and only
Exclusively use?
Blackberry Honey
The sounds of winds crashing against my window, trying
To get in, not a fan
Manifesting into my dreams as I pray for
a sense of direction, slipping
Down under
Tears
Gears rusted, wasted bones atone
To the years lived and conquered. Away
And powerless to it, it took me to
Darkness, pitch-black save for
Three misshapen stars
Ready to grasp
If direction came, I missed it
If comfort came, it drowned. Until
Eyes wide open I emerged
The cheek I kissed and did not want to dare miss this next day,
Smelled of pastries and cigarettes and I
Wished he didn’t smoke at all
He handed me a plate covered
By another plate and on top of that plate it said
His name, recklessly written
He waited 15 minutes for me and I believe he would have waited
Fifteen more only to sit with me for ten.
I wanted nothing more but to leave with him. To hold his free hand that
Wasn’t holding a roll of black paper. Instead, he gave me
Something else to carry. A makeshift box made of plates. Full.
Full of pastries you smelled like. Kept together by
Black tape. He likes to tell me everything about everything just how I
Like to write everything about everything.
He likes to kiss the part of my face I hate the most.
My nose.
Last night I dreamt that
His blackberry honey voice whirred through the orange sky
Sweet and harmonious it flew
To soothe the aching soul
Like the benevolent Sonoran wind it came
To blow the dark away.