NATIONAL POETRY MONTH: Day 20

Let me be the ink stain 
on the corner left dimple
From where the 
pen bled, and your 
smile leaked words
so quickly, you kept
bleeding- until
the pen dried up
and your creation 
was a skeleton: like you. 
Long torso, with arms 
that make liters 
look like soup cans 
and water taste
like mother’s 
milk: Nourish me. 


Let me nourish 
you, with a hope 
that hibernates
in the wrinkles 
on my tear-stained 
toes and feed you
with a spoon made
of tulips and thyme.

Let me be the way you wish 
to go on the map that I will
draw for you with tattered 
pages from the book Moses
stole from god. For it is in the subtext 
of each commandment
that thou shall not
abandon those who
make you their home.

Let me roll up, both 
your legs, the invisible fraying.
Let me nest you in a hide-away 
made of stars and sunrise, 
nestle you  between 
the pieces of Ursa Minor 
so you will always find your way.

thou shall not
abandon those who
make you their home

Let me remember the night mother
ran away, with blue watercolors framing
her broken eyes, to be back by morning,
painting her mask with a normalcy 
saved for rainbow reflections
and the solitude of dust bunnies. 

Let every knock-knee bend to the floor, 
as daughters worry that their loves
won’t ever return to the beds they made 
three-times over--as if fitted sheets
are the reason it's three AM and he's still
not home. 

Let my fingers envelop yours
when miles fold like vanilla and cream
and hands are spatulas softly watching 
worlds collide. 

thou shall not
abandon those who
make you their home.