the maternal bond

of hands veered away in fright

are skin thin strings gone astray



glistening waters

mingle with evening’s last light,

minutes to sundown


butter knife

your presence, veils

the tip of my tongue

with shards as gracious

as a slippery butter knife.


a today

these are the days – unfiltered mouthfuls of air, an unremitting force in and through your system. water breathes through you, bearing a resistance similar to a blunt knife slicing into an ice block of defrosting butter. today, the air we gasped upon each inhalation was an age old carousel of stale recycled waste. still, I got up and went on with the business of – living.

reminding myself of the lives built on love and sacrifice, unceasing suffering and a singular lotus, abloom in the gunk of brown mud. towards sleep, I watched as your eyes grew themselves deeper into the trudge of an elongated well. held back the coins i had wanted to toss into the maker of untold dreams and fervent prayers. listened, as the pitch of your voice sloped into a parched damp of burdened worries. there has been such struggle in my daily doings, simple gifts such as listening, speaking, eating, moving is tied to an invisible thread, threatening to snap at the softest jolt, a gentle tap.

then, i spoke to myself in the dark. it is not in spite of suffering, that we grow. it is because of it, through it, and with it. warmed this illusion, in the heart of my palm as the adulterated faith within me, drifted.



embrace me

with the wrath of

your wicked sense.


shoulder blades

between the blades of

hunched shoulders, weighs

the capacity of all that has

been hidden; left unturned.




my palm, a gentle smear

across the wells of your

hollowed cheeks, such that

all doubt and fear may be

cast out, it’s presence;




I, ground my knees as

etchings into oiled wooden

planks; as the soil of my

sorrow drips, filling the fine

lines of our foundation.



the eventual decay

of mortality, fills my

mouth like a flock of

white doves; leaving


well kept

our palms clasped in an

uneasy disposition, and

fingers wound into a spiral

of enclosed memories; are

these the only tell tale signs

we know of well-kept silence?