It rained inside the totality of losses, and populated solitary ventures into the rhyme and rhythmic pulses of pleasantly sad dense clouds moving slowly through veins. No one hears this music when a key within my bosom pulls my head down low…

I alone listen.

I alone remember.

Protective bird of rubble. Gatekeeper of my thorns. My sanguine woes. Wine drip from eyes shut tight. Cleansed orifices offer no consolation for lewd gesture. No hands in my holy water. Sweetness stays in morbid pacification…I harvest no wine for strange lips.

Rotating questions immerse umbrellas in my soul. Quantum leap from storm into down under. Fizzled glare. Stoic rainbows remember my youth. I wrinkle tending to my garments; my wrung out torn mother. Grievances shift into graves…

Wake the dead while living.

I’ll call them tomorrow.

Because, invincibility made me notes of mortality. I read over and over again the marginal lines of my mother and father’s existence and paper thin possibilities within the strength of their spines...My father crinkles...But, I am far away unfolding old dresses. The ones that I wore when I last saw you...

 

Don’t worry mama.

Don’t worry papa.

 

My soul does not overturn seed into flower for those who never made me bread.

 

© Mimi Caneda Mata