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…
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