mid-air mumbles

pause. sigh. go. hi.

i am the salty mist
of God’s tears hitting
baked sand; the innocence of April
lilacs at 6 am on a sleepy street
in Westwood; blistered corn, swathed
in sweet butter during dog day
lullabies.  i am cinnamon bark,
nutmeg cloves, and ginger
roots drowning
in tepid Bordeaux.
i am bing cherries

in August, punched with lime; iron
in blood; cotton candy burnt
by a sculptor’s blowtorch.

i am the shrill wail of a freight
train in the distance.  i am the screen
door slamming because she is
home; the birds singing
to Fogg from the willow
tree; the motor whining
in your Mazda as the thunder broke
over Monument Valley—how you
giggled in the monsoon.  and hail
shattering my windshield.

i am purple velvet swaddling
couch cushions with
cacti poking legs—piercing—
ripping holes, but we sink
deeper.  i am Cleo’s
breath on cold foreheads.  i am
the leather of my
Mama’s face.

i am blueberries—sweet
and discrete—ripe
bruises; sunshine fields; little
girls with fuschia blush; golden,
glowing sunsets; and brown
flannel.

i am the hush of Sunday mornings
at the lake.  i am his heartbeat before
he’s awake.  i am the clatter
and clang of dishwashers.  i am
the tide and ripple of
streams in Estes.  i am ashes
descending Never Summer.  i am
flapping hawk wings in Big
Sur.  i am whispers
told to Niagra.

Posted at 7:20pm and tagged with: full width, photography, graffiti, love, poetry, poem, photo, synesthesia,.

i am the salty mist of God’s tears hitting baked sand; the innocence of April lilacs at 6 am on a sleepy street in Westwood; blistered corn, swathed in sweet butter during dog day lullabies.  i am cinnamon bark, nutmeg cloves, and ginger roots drowning in tepid Bordeaux.i am bing cherries in August, punched with lime; iron in blood; cotton candy burnt by a sculptor’s blowtorch.
i am the shrill wail of a freight train in the distance.  i am the screen door slamming because she is home; the birds singing to Fogg from the willow tree; the motor whining in your Mazda as the thunder broke over Monument Valley—how you giggled in the monsoon.  and hail shattering my windshield.
i am purple velvet swaddling couch cushions with cacti poking legs—piercing—ripping holes, but we sink deeper.  i am Cleo’s breath on cold foreheads.  i am the leather of my Mama’s face.
i am blueberries—sweet and discrete—ripe bruises; sunshine fields; little girls with fuschia blush; golden, glowing sunsets; and brown flannel.
i am the hush of Sunday mornings at the lake.  i am his heartbeat before he’s awake.  i am the clatter and clang of dishwashers.  i am the tide and ripple of streams in Estes.  i am ashes descending Never Summer.  i am flapping hawk wings in Big Sur.  i am whispers told to Niagra.

Notes: