The rain has stopped,
And golden cream billows over Egyptian cotton.
As a child, feeling fingers
And cheekbones burn cool, I look
To the gutter.
A semblance of chroma.
The oil reflects the sky,
A universe where
Purples and greens smell like
Diesel.
Friends nearby,
Tyson, Ray-Ray, Thomas, Jo Jo.
Crescent moons nestled in ebony.
No need to fear life’s sting or pang.
Syringe in soft skin… not now.
Remembering the first time we said “Bitch”
While straddling a swing-set.
Our skin a desert.
Blood turned to crimson emulsion while
Ashes fell like pollen.
We could taste the crunch our footsteps made,
As our legs shuffled dust.
The street lamp signaled mom’s cries.
Our hearts
For every two beats, gave one away.
The tempo has changed.
Once innocent games,
Never remains.
Poiesis 