Iris burns blue around 2 a.m.,
a bowl of melted copper
white, lined paper.
History is not linear, but skipping.
brewed from roots gnarled and damaged,
cupped in a hollow where our hearts had been,
a light begins to change…
pulsing slowly, opaque,
we learn to listen.
I’ve heard this one before.
Crowned villain dusts our land,
expert mutation of lung
returns over and over.
Some say we had it coming,
burial mounds suggest it never left.
layered translucent in spirit,
we finally understood,
witnessed the tapestry of sutures.
in lack of oxygen.
Sleep less and
somehow the day keeps repeating skipping skipping
I think I’ve heard this one before.
your prayer is a grain of sun in our palms
illuminating us whole.
Not so long ago
we thought the path just uneven.
Only to look and find
we have become overgrown,
cairns blending with the horizon.
when the only sound is sleeping breath,
there is comfort in myriad languages,
confessing every detail
etched into my heart—
documenting a beauty of infinite.
Pulse re-tuned could guide the light,
work unbound, translated
by oil water sound by skin muscle ink.
Someday children will remember,
path interrupted without consent.
The elders inside them,
echo those before,
pick lessons clean for survival,
blossom in cartilage and
lengthen tendrils deep.
we will break new ground,
place stones higher for the next generation to find.
Beneath each step a seed,
opening behind them.