Thursday, March 26, 2015


Peek, you say, promising strands of color
through a lens, past times packed inside
a circle

trust starts with a promise
usually mono-syllabic, you state an ability
to make a dress out of gold-rays and the night's sky

little things like that can ruin a woman's appetite
to growing up, natural for her to expect
roses by the bedside, to make them, sow the petals on

to make history happen,  sow it
add coloration to any mixture
mix shades and ban others from toning red,

justify it with purity, discoloration and the exchange of skin
none human, not fleshed out on fur
we've banned cruelty to the living

not the dead, the dead gain our respect
bunched, thrown into tears arranged
handkerchiefs tinted with our glorified sadness

without much refrain in your voice, besides the caroling
you stretch a hand towards me, to return the  kaleidoscope
There's a foreign sound on you,
like spice, like sugar, necessities taken for granted
heavy in my hands, are the rainbows of childhood.

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