Poetry
dances
swirls on spiraled staircases sips on sun flowered
water. I am here with you victorious
reaching &
yes
remembering facts that dance with color
that breathe shades & hues & vibrate
sing
Cecilia once told me she had to choose between poetry and painting, but she no longer believes this and is recovering what was stolen, rejected, lost. You bequeath to your daughter what was left of the flag, and rejecting its unflattering form, she refashions it into a crop top to show off her midriff. She’s on the verge of something, that beautiful precipice.
The phone rang, but I couldn’t answer
There were clouds of smoke
curling around my head
I was only real when I
touched myself.
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