i.

for my grandmother

at the edges of earth, there

lays a sunset, streaking gold into 

the eyes of the hungry/hurting/tired. The sun never

lies, grandma said once. Watch. Summer 

stills, no more than  

empty purples and fading light pinks

written in memory of gladiolus and 

rosemary. Grandma leaves/smiles/boards a plane to China,  

heartstrings tugging at dollops of sesame oil popping 

on a hot skillet, with a scintilla of 

autumn’s homesickness. 

May I 

slink out of grey December, miche

into corners of hell, burning bitter

herbs, pressing yellow flowers

against a black wilderness. Shrapnel

sinews sprouts of elm

into my bruised veins, inking a

way up to my red fingertips. Tears

fall, slipping down the slides of a park; raindrop lines on the window

of a silver Toyota, emblazoned by streets 

of headlight paints. I peek out of 

rusted metal bars, awaiting spring’s cover, blood 

varnishing my lips in salty oblivion, gritty

with the soft taste of wine, while I live, sobbing/breathing/alive,

shackled against the distant/broken/sweet 

lullabies of 

home.