Deflowered dreams
thin the air
on a gorgeous day & peace
becomes an iridescent thing,
flitting at the corners
of your eyes, darting by
indecipherable.
A pair of ginkgoes’ finery
blares gold as they shed,
flared arms reach toward things
long buried, tapping kegs
of tears that today’s young
already understand root, volume
& salty composition—griefs
nesting as Babushka dolls.
The wind shreds your lips,
roughens kisses as you learn to love
a house that swallows you
at night, canyons private fears,
creaks shame as others marvel
at pretty lead paint.
Phantom sorrows swaddled
on your back like infants
you won’t have
trick you into staying alive for the chance
to save any breathing, true thing
as the world monsoons loss
upon loss.
But on a morning slightly sweeter
than most lately, the sun
fingers your hair, lays in your lap
warm as a lover,
& you made yourself avocado toast,
& the coffee was just so,
& later you’ll call your mom
because you still can & your dad
will ask about oil changes, unable
to stop tending his overgrown child
& you’ll let loose strong giggles
you came into the world with
& wipe your eyes, & then wipe them again
so you can stare into a perfect blue
blessed by raining, curled leaves.
