by Rebekkah Autaubo
sometimes i forget i live in full view of the sun
i forget my laundry when i lay my head down to sleep
sometimes the paths i whack into the overgrown bushes
resemble tripwires with those burnt roots
sometimes i wish to reach another rung on the ladder
other hours i want to remember the taste of brewed earth
i can drag my feet through every waterfall pouring from my lungs
bring my elbows just high enough to see over the waterfall
i am afraid of sleeping alone but the comfort[er] can only stretch so far
i can hoist my hips onto the desk for pleasure – to admit/submit to one
but the day will not answer my lighter for shade
sometimes i forget the things i’ve already said
i repeat with the intention of learning and revisiting people / places / where?
the sun is gentle when he needs to be a gatekeeper
my moon wavers beyond my field of vision like a disturbed pond
waterlily – paper strength – like veins holding – pumping dirt to surface
sometimes i forget i am subjected to the rise of clouds and
steam my whispers and prayers to be brave and strong float on
top like every golden burning halo of my full chilled pint
coping was never a burden my elbows could carry –
it bent, they bent and screamed – kicked out my anchors with ease
sometimes i forget i live in full view of the sun
rays of ascendancy ordaining the lay of my road-worn soles