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

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