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Your wet chest holds more memories than any skull
- living or dead. I’ve seen your chisel of a sternum, your breastplate of old bricks. Have they served you well? Does the safe house still stand? Paint the white porch ceiling haint blue. Spirits might come knocking. The watch turns to warning - a new eye approaches. I know your safe house stands. There’s no tired wind snake-rattling your chest, no red clay clogging veins. That false train rumble will take us back to your door. All dirt roads and branch waters come home to Bama. ... Published in Cypress: A Literary Journal my mama’s purple leather jacket:
a gift of a gift. dry skin squeaks as faults stick-slip ‘tween creases. memories of a long-gone youth preserved. polishing deep purple with oil (like greasing my scalp before bed). what’s good for skin is good for skin. we crave touch. once the cowhide has been dyed and stitched, no one remembers the innards or teeth. This lining is cool burgundy, and the leather creases perfectly with my face: a gift of a gift. skin of my skin. ... Published in Cypress: A Literary Journal see the tree
light the forest. know her name ~ My face rests inside eyes, but leaves only see their own green-tinted nights. No one makes the way for me: it all leads north. A cataracted sky looks on. Ripe berries burst - broken capillary cheeks in sweet-smelling rivers. ~ a choice waits to be made anew. none are chosen ... Published in Cypress: A Literary Journal |
Credit: Kelsey Weeks 
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March 2021
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