she sat in the center of her home
becoming the heart of the halls
the blood drifting in and out of
the corridors,
the clot that stood still in the living room
unable to move to the next destination
stuck staring at the dusty painting
that haunted her tendency
to fix that which does not
need fixing,

humming the delicate tune
which ascended into the aorta
of her kitchen,
all the way
to the apex of her attic
and finally folding into itself
like the towels in her
chamber of cabinets,
before unraveling out
through the long vein
of her chimney,

the housewife who
makes a living
with sharpened bread knives
and turning scones into
christmas trees,
who croons ancient love songs
in her infinite spare time,

and i wonder as i
stare at her
from underneath my book
of russian poetry,
how she holds up
when the front door bursts opens
and nature sings
a solo to her heart.

-

What kind of world will we leave for our children,
one that is shackled in hate?
Tying their hands in the wake of the future,
sealing the edge of their fate.

Killing of innocents minding their business,
filling the shadows with fear.
What is the plan to relieve all this worry,
now that it’s already here?

Why is it right that we turn against neighbors
just for the clothing they wear?
The color of skin and the faith they believe in,
did we forget how to care?

Racism churned from the bellies of monsters,
pointing their fingers in blame
When will they learn that we’re in this together,
regardless of language or name?

Why do we hide always ducking for cover,
waiting this terror to cease?
When we can stand up like sister and brother
walking together in peace.

We are all people who live on this planet,
being the best we can be.
It’s up to us what we leave for our children,
why not a world that is free?

i swirl in van gogh.
i am charcoal stains
on blue,
a smile of barbed wire
for the painter,
i am mona lisa, true.

monet, he paints me
calm waters,
water lilies floating
in solitude,
he doesn't see
the fire sprouting
in my veins.

picasso cannot stain
my heart with colour,
magritte cannot
create a masterpiece
out of my eyes.

to be immortalized
i beg in pink
lick the brush
and paint myself
alive.

end my days
in escher,
sketch myself
out of the stairway,
into the globe.

throw myself
at deaths eye,
kiss the canvas
rotten, ******,
*pretty.