perusing, I found that last piece:
dusty charcoal circles, slightly smudged
by your fingers, your artwork
forgotten on a shelf. I lifted it,
my wrists shivering, the pale white
lines and seven simple shapes.
I could hear the squeak of the charcoal sticks
on paper, the squeak of your voice in it. That
memory, dead in my head, has grown silent.
It will not speak, so I will
set your art aflame
on the cold asphalt and dry leaves
where it curls up and dies glowing.
– not alone, someone else
stomps out the flames. And then we roll away into the night.
“If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.“
the flames consume you
burning out of your dark eyes, speckling your skin with soot
let no one tell you what you must
to be adequate, accepted.
their standards are limited to muscle, skin color, sweat and guns
you are strength tied with blood
playing with limitations, reaching in directions misunderstood by the common ideals
Heavy feet half-treading the packed ground,
soles thin to paper.