Mom
She doesn't have to feel this way
Embraced by guilt,
Bleeding shame
She can't see who she really is
Underneath all this hate
She's not sure how to find herself
She can't remember joy
All she knows now is loss
All this unbearable pain
She misses him more each day
Her baby boy, gone
Stolen fiercely away
She doesn't want to know
Who she is, without him
To laugh, without him alive
Feels like a sin
She would rather die
After he blew out the candles
A jumbo pack of nachos,
A jumbo pack of pretzels,
A large cake , with candles,
party-size bottles of sodas and juice,
which nobody drank.
the leftovers were sensibly stowed in ziplocks,
which he took with him to school.
when they started to go stale,
the pretzles became an added ingrediant,
to the peanut butter an jelly sandwich.
i was every color in the world, alight
the astonishing color of after
she twisted her hair around her finger
strands of blue faded to the color of broken sea glass
the sun buttering the windows
the taste of the oolong tea is colored by the smell of smoke- salty wisps
the sky had turned electric
and the sun was cutting stripes across his face
giving him a mask made of light
butterscotch smear and the faint wash of carnelian
moon-cold floor
colors invert
crumbled to silty ash
tessellated.
ribbons of black smoke
purple-grey seeps into the sky
stained in charcoal
umber of dusk
crunchy pieces of autumn sprinkled across the lawn
the sky is a velvety indigo with the hint of dark silvery clouds
my mother once told me: the clouds you see at night hold promises.
buttery soft sleep
the morning light pale and water and shattered. broken into a million pieces.
black, spreading, fissuring
she burns like a star.
kensho
when you
shut your mind’s eye,
close your mind’s ear,
relax your mind’s skin,
hold your mind’s tongue,
and stop your mind’s nose,
the ripples in your mind’s pond will cease,
and
you will realize
the pond
is an infinitely deep,
infinitely vast
ocean
of
pure
consciousness,
and every subsequent ripple
will be
a tsunami
of
delicacy
and
delight
