My Mother Walks Me

through a dream where a ballroom is capital city. Here is where I do not conceal the honesty
of my dance steps. Where each trip is an only misjudged move. Where each fall is a door to
a harvest of sympathy. Here, my mother dusts off the silt of inaction. She shoots towards
the horizon of a dawn far apart from the cemetery of bones. This dream is a garden & each wish a supple fruit that is obtainable. It is here I climb the tower of her voice, wade into
the trill of her pronunciations. I gather with ease the moonlight of our smiles, her audacity
of affection, my elongation of awe.

Where I Need to Be

I crawl out of my room to climb
the roof to watch

the moon paint the sky & the rest
of us a great white.

What’s mine is…