I had a dream that my mother's
country was on fire, & I was six
feet away from it. Now that I have
a thorn in my flesh. Now that the
clouds are slow moving. Now that
all my dead have the imagination
of a hundred kindred souls. I can
feed my voice to the brittle dry air
of these prairies. Not all skies are
readable; like yesterday, I swear I
heard the clouds deride me in their
thunderous peals. I am filled. I am
filled with all the deaths everything
I love has left me. Unbottled hunger
seeks to claim me. My brother's face
nestling under the pave of death's
garden. A little boy plucks its flowers.
Struts after the gazelles in his stomach.
I find it harder to forgive the room, so
I offer my feet to the dog-nose wetness
of the road. Nothing fills the body with
light than a returning. A sprinkling of
salt on this vain heart. A cannonade
shredding everything inside of me.
Pink petals make the wildest nightmare.
For everything beautiful is doomed to a
kind of finiteness. Nothing blooms in
the body's tabernacle. I still have this
dream of you, brother, coming to me
like you never left—cleaving cicadas and
revealing to me a polaroid of scars.
Why do you come to me with a mesh
of nails ploughing your palms? Are you
Jesus? You coo with the brown pigeons.
You spin on the navel of a pure storm.
There are no stars to caress the keening.
No salt to sweeten the wounds. So stay,
or leave a meaning on the fossiled sands.
Powered by Froala Editor