Like a clot in the back of my mind, molassesleak, watery haze, I wade through
an aurous-lit kitchen. Idle statues through windows,
chalked, flushing vermilion in this early morning rise.
We would lay our heads in the trees, under the heaviest of pillows,
just to sleep.
Mechlin lace folded, the wood table, a sweetness still hangs. Scent of cloves. We can’t keep it back, clouding over like a hum in our hands. Carried like stars, it glows up and over our ears, until all we hear is light pouring across the sky.
This is the reflection of tears: mirror undercurrent, quivering water in the brain. Not amniotic, but gradually, a thawed constellation.
Shading over everything, we bow without watching to gods who aren’t watching.
How to breathe with all this quiet filling my lungs? Faces like soil, our skin leaking rivers.