after leila chatti

No birds. No stars. No one remembering how they’re

dead but how brilliant they are. No one saying that

the sun’s just another star, no shaping it in the face of

a lover long lost. No more other realities. No more other lives.

The truth is that we get this one and then we blow it

before we ever had the chance. Again, no birds. No more

metaphors about how they’re flying and how they’re free.

I can’t stand being so full of envy anymore. No more you.

Who in God’s name is the you, ever, anyways? This poem

isn’t for you. I want it to be for me. I want to be selfish in

a piece for once. I’m so tired nowadays. There are no

bird wings or Greek muses that could change that. I’m scared,

and it is not poetic. There is no rebirth that makes this better.

It doesn’t matter that we see the same moon at night, or

the fact that you can pretend I’m the lover stuck in it. I’m just

angry all the time that it saw you first. Would you still love me

if you didn’t have to. If I didn’t say that you’re the one in some

flash fiction piece where you save me. Would you still love me if

you knew how hopeless I was. I said this poem wasn’t for you, but

maybe I’m just angry all the time that you can only appear in stanzas,

anyways. I will make no euphemisms. I am hurt and alone.

in an ocean of life, you wash away

the sand of pain, and in a balance, 

you bring it back, salty toffee arms 

holding me close in the past, present

and future - my dear, haven’t i told 

you, floating in molasses and honey,

how i love you so, to the furthest stars

in the galaxy, milky way waterfalls

that twinkle and sparkle in those -

orbs of night sky kindness, holding

me, floating on memory foam and

cotton candy fluff, wispy clouds

strong but gentle, and, my love, 

you are everything i could’ve ever 

asked for and more.

The smell of the fresh life blooming around me reminds me of an innocence I’ve lost.

The budding grass mocks me with its youth as I inhale the summer sun.

The fresh tulips smile at me as I pass, their grins tease me with a happiness unknown.

I don’t know how to fit in this world,

a world of new beginnings and new chances.

The robins nesting look down on me as I sullenly walk by them.

Baby birds chirping with a purity I find myself yearning for and an optimism I’ve long forgotten.

I forget and it settles,

then a passing stranger reminds me of you and my breath catches in my throat.

I forget to breathe as I remember,

you.

and what you took from me.

My breath grows my shallow and my mind blurry.

Until I forget again,

and I breathe once more.

The bluebirds nesting in the oak tree downtown sing me a melancholy tune as I turn the corner.

The worm, laying on the sidewalk crack helplessly looking for a savior that will not come, smiles at me.

My hope hangs in my chest like an albatross, reminding me that I will never truly be free from myself and the memories that lurk within.

As I cross the road I see a baby bird reach out its neck to be fed by a mother who loved her unconditionally,

I resent it with my entire being as a burning shame that I will never shake grows deep inside my throat.

we the children of mother earth

hold her hand as we force the

smoke down her lungs, watching

(carbon dioxide, chlorofluorocarbons,

methane, ozone, nitrous oxide)

as she attempts at holding her breath.

she doesn't want to breathe, but

our sweet mother holds her tongue

and takes all the pain we lash 

at her, the whip of men on her

conscience every waking second.

bless her soul, the mother who

never sleeps, to care for her

feeble-minded, thick-headed

children who she holds near and

dear to her heart, their souls

joining her in the dance of 

leaves of grass, watching her from

their seats in heaven or their

chains in hell, always watching

as their mother strives forward.

her blood is clogged with 

microplastics, her lungs full

of greenhouse gases, eyes

clouded with the chemical

fog, pores clogged from

landfills, but there is only

so much that a mother can

take from her spoiled children.

so when the volcanoes erupt,

those are her screams of

agony.

when the tectonic plates shift,

those are her veins pulsing,

struggling to keep her moving. 

when ocean waters rush to shore

she is crying, pleading for her

children to help her clean the

mess that they painted onto 

her one body, her one body.

and when we reach for father mars

no one hears her lonesome cries 

at night, begging not to be abandoned

in the beaten, bruised state that we,

her children, her only children

have put her in.