n ed aeslehc• iroya n de sunday best

ii. iii.

we want the bluest of blues, crimson, the richest hue, lustrous bodies sup a half-lit air. we ask for more than we can take. we easy breezy, contending with the sun secure solace in socratic space we are sisters in pain members of a shared roof the only ache. it keeps us beating awake presume light bulbs only know the shade they are predisposed to, but we negate empirics. God’s Spirit illuminates a compass without a need for how or why on Sundays, we drove to Church, through tons of mileage, our baggage trotting in the backseat. today's gold sun entreats us: remember to forget our Genesis. extend release of toxins as new tongues spin on the track.

(lights, sundays) what do you make of falling through the years? my own fears have failed me once again. i am building a fortress to withstand abrasion. from the nipple, you wrecked me with every word, plowing through strands of neuroses i strap for selfprotection. and your blame games suit like stained skin, i wear them all the time.

Our shofars charge with Oxygen and heat and every silent gene that's been buried within sing this song in secret –self soothing is innate, a gift from the milk that bore you. master the art of falling into the ash tray, at times ceramic molds into cushion. for once, let a bed quiet your fire and say good-bye to all the weeks wasted under men who wronged you. wish them well along the way. mom said it’s no use crying when patients die in hospice –people expire and silver linings hold space. sifted slivers of sorrow mount into beams of sunlight climbing to tomorrow. black poems retire once they are done stealing from conversations that didn’t invite them, after remembering the fact of being alive.