a draft

I remember my mother’s hands--

who is it that has us believing
that memories exist in a timeline
and that maybe that particular sequence is us

we folk know
it is like the air is made of gelatin
and somebody threw a stone through a church window
as it was congealing--

raw like the red meat she handled
burned with industrial quantities of industrial strength sanitizers
shrimp tails under her chipped fingernails
knuckles wide and knotted.

]short[

no hair in my face to the public--
the harsh, harsh edge of the mirror that does not meet up with life

that puzzle promised
we bought second hand

several pieces missing.

--the wind that I love on my face, the sun

untitled

point of contact
like a bullet shot through ice
suffuses the world with me, orange--
all oranges through which these moments bloom
take up the whole of time
for instance, streaking the window panes, for instance
staining a face
for instance
marking your hand when I hold it

impression/expression

when he walks through the door he says
I had to come tonight

I didn’t want to wait
he says, arms hesitating in mid air, until tomorrow

as he steps toward me the air stretches
the lamplight streaks the general greens he brings with autumn’s golds

wait, I have choked out, wait, I have reflexively coughed out, wait
but it’s too late, he stretches out a hand

and there it breaks apart
like colored glass raining down a well