Thursday, November 4, 2021

the dirt wet by my parents’ spewing / torn up muddy fields / where a playground should have been built / my mother’s hands too polished / my father’s too shaky / as moonrise sinks / with the dunk of a wintry chill / I claw my way through hardened earth / I plead with the branches / to lift me to the heavens / when they stay silent / I continue toward the promise of a lover’s voice / it’s traveled through sunrises to find me / his calls speak of home / he will scrape the dirt beneath my fingernails / and soak my palms in warm water from the vintage tub / our walls will echo folk songs / and he will keep me warm

This piece was published by Unfortunately Literary Magazine.

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