We sing songs into our cold hands
Around a bucket full of flames.
History cools against itself, as
Flares break the skies like an
SOS to our collective memory.
We whisper this land is no land,
Just echoes of taxless frontiers
Where we weep and build and crumble.
At the center of strength
Is weakness, cultivated fracture
Sustained by casings of muscle and
Fascia and fear and heartache
In the midst of force lending
Instability to unexamined stability.
In the morning the steam from my
Coffee makes a rainbow on the glass
Pane behind the kitchen counter
Where it sings and dew drops form
After the storm of my night.
My emotions that pass like clouds
In dreams replacing one scene with
Another with no respect to time, logic.
The taste of the coffee is bitter; the
Sun rises over the mug warming my
Fingertips and I smile in the
Ritual of a new day.
I drink coffee,
A little girl screams.
I walk to the balcony
To peer over the street
In either a wave of humanity
Or morbid curiosity.
It’s difficult to know
In the moment. She is
running with red hair
Like fire behind her, echoing.
Behind her a woman walks,
Hair colorless, with a
Grocery bag and a gait that is
Too calm for the situation.
She confers with the downstairs
Neighbor while the girl disappears
Out of sight. And this is how
Violence passes, unseen and
I speak like a rose bush:
Whispers of sweetness
We stand, toes wriggling in
Sand and sink
Eyes fixated on the horizon