That morning when I’d first heard of your departure,
I cursed the sun—how dare it beam through my window,
how dare it attempt to warm my skin?

I was filled, for just a moment,
with a rage I couldn’t swallow,
as I picked mulberries
and their juice stained my quivering lips.

Birds sang at your funeral—
their songs couldn’t drown out your father’s grief.
The same birds I’d spend months shooing away
from the fresh soil where you were laid.

For weeks, as I’d drive to work,
I’d spew hatred at the stars—
scattered so carelessly in front of me.
They mocked my loneliness with their togetherness.

I hate that you’re gone.
I hate that I know
that the stars would go on shining without me, too.

You cut down the forest, tree by tree
to build another villa.
Cut the heads from each blade of grass
to keep in accordance with regulation.
Cut the thorns from the rosebush
to keep it pretty, defenseless.
Cut down the dandelion
to make it easier to breathe;
once medicine, now just a ****.
Cut the boys’ hair short,
cut the girls’ wings shorter,
to make for the perfect family photo.
Cut the native tongue from the migrant’s mouth
to create cohesion in culture.
Cut the stillness of the night
to make way for off-ramps and neon lights.
Cut your health below expectation
for a paper check, riddled with taxation.
Cut your love close
to save yourself some heartbreak.
Cut that which does not serve,
as long as you continue to serve.
Keep cutting away
and calling it progress.

I’m awakened with fluttering eyelids,
warmth already draped over me—
tendrils of light reaching,
bursting into every gap they find.
Beckoning me closer,
into the bright,
basking in the touch
that leaves spots on my skin
where I’ve been kissed too much.
A little note for down the road.
We flirted too long, but did so with ease.
Now I’m left in an ever-blushing state!
Oh! The Sun is such a tease!

What a noble thing it is,
to leave a blossoming flower to bloom—
maybe plucking a leaf or two
to give growing petals precious room.

As you stroll past the blooms each day,
you encourage their budding hues.
Their fragrance greets you,
hugging you in their delicate perfume.

Soon a familiar chill meets you;
and a familiar grief settles within you.
As the blossoms wilt,
your steps grow slower,
hoping to cling to just a moment of color.

Soon to be surrounded
by Death and Decay,
even if only for a while—
Pondering an earthly truth,
as true as the birds sing:
Nobody gets to keep
a beautiful thing.

I’ve always looked at birds
with the sort of jealousy
that can only be felt
by a creature who’s stuck to the ground.

I’ve clawed at my shoulders,
I’ve left welts on my back.
Still…
There’s no wings to be found

Wishing for bones
that are deft and hollow,
while carrying ones instead
filled with blood and marrow.

No feathers protrude
from beneath this skin.
Just a humanly ache
that the birds cannot borrow.

I wake to fairy bells and even breathing beside me.
The sun looks groggy, and steal its face as I rinse my own.
Quiet tiptoes pirouette through the kitchen,
silent hands pack lunch in glass boxes.
With three kisses goodbye, and the twist of a lock,
I spend the day in this little box.
I have the freedom to do anything in this luxurious cage.
Whatever my heart desires
is at my fingertips.
Fingertips move with a technical grace,
finding the image in the wood to trace.
Sitting at a laptop, typing away,
hoping to feel pride of the self one day.
The sun sits high and now so am I;
as I bake breads and cookies at 375.
I’ve cleaned up Hot Wheels nine times today,
but they're all out again,
as I watch the boys play.
Evening comes, and love comes home.
Dinner and a movie, a nightly routine.
A few hours with my brother
is better for us both than it seems.
The stars lay glistening
as I lay listening
to the thuds in the chest
that I memorized long ago.
A few Hail Marys lull me,
as I hear the next day call me.

The laundry needs done.
And I'm in my bed.
Laying, sobbing, and mourning;
A life that will not come to pass.
Despising a body born more than imperfect.
Preparing to force a certain brightness to the surface.
Questioning, what else can be done?
The laundry.
The laundry needs done.