The small gods said
that I can’t see past the hill.
What am I?
A lady? A queen?
The kitchen is a silent civil war zone
Bound by wedding rings
He was the purple flower with
his palms for leaves
that could hold the
tears passed down
as family legacy.
Not many people live here anymore.
And those who do, they look like,
they’ve forgotten how to laugh.
Me, too, has a strong-armed will,
a mean swing
for bats and balls, a
wild, mean, streak for elbowing.
Midnight pools catch the brilliant lanterns
carried by women in procession.
Deep into sleep
I follow them home.
The streets malinger beneath the tight-lipped sky.
Each stone draws like a weapon.
Each cooking fire is a funeral.
The stomach suffers immensely / It suffers from lack.