Dearest you You got more spots splattered Across your body Were they moles or freckles? You never knew But they’ve been with you Since you first touched the sun They’ve been ridiculed Unwanted Used as connect the dots Tiny Brown spots Were they skin cancer or beauty marks? The canvas they decorate Has also wrinkled With lines from different lifetimes This one you seem pretty satisfied in And your eyes Beautiful swirling coffee cup orbs Have they sat out too long Turned cloudy

Chanel No.5. Waxy lipstick. The clip clop of leather heels. Smell of my mother lingers since I was a little girl As an adult, I know my mother's scent A soft musk That I only get When I go in for a hug deep sighs and closed eyes a shot of hydration in the desert of passing time But as a mother, I see my daughter this radiant ridiculous joy and wonder Could she have been my mother in the faraway countryside smelling of manure mud, long blades of grass a hard days fragrance of

Some people are made of flower petals, or hard, stony rocks. Some are black holes draining the light from everyone nearby. Some people carry the elements inside: water, wind, earth, metal and me: fire. My mother once brought home a psychic who told her I was too much fire. Said to drape the room in blue with curtains, sheets, my clothes too to cool the heat that lives in me. A little color theory. But there’s a small ember tucked beside my lungs deep flames simmering like the

Depression I wore you once Like the blue dress my mother made me wore When I was a child Itchy Wanting to take you off But forced to smile and nod And perhaps I’ve worn you since Like when my mother fixed my hem A thread must have caught my skin And you got sewed in Years it rested a minor blemish Between my dermis  shielded me from connection growing a deep pain And when I gave life With a roaring cry A heavy black coat fell Draped over my eyes My mouth My mind  even my hear

I held some grapes more than my hand could grasp. Some tumbled onto the floor and fled. I ran to retrieve them, as if someone stood...

Voices grow hoarse  Seeking for change There’s progress And then there’s tradition Written in the early mud banks  Where humans first...

A child takes and takes And takes And that’s ok They are the seeds Of the future evergreen And have you ever seen A poor potted plant...