Yellow Sweater

Everything was immaculate once,

before the streets were swept
before the grass was only green,
and the sun was pushed to a corner. 

Before we labeled the world beautiful to please ourselves,

dawn, 

Once, when we were very young, we went out to catch butterflies. Your father had given you a butterfly net for your birthday and the early summer air was warm and full of bugs. We walked down the old dirt road.

I have had a headache all day. 
It throbs with the seconds, 
and headlines.  

I have taken to looking at my toes, 
just to reassure myself that they are still there.

My tree, with its small gold leaves, is shrouded in mist. The air is cold and thick as it trickles down my throat. It’s hard to breathe in the mornings. I wiggle my toes to keep them warm and pull my dusty blankets to my chin.

Sara held her hand and they walked down the street together. I watched them as I sat on a hard city bench, limply clutching a pastry covered in sticky white frosting. Their steps were tense, fragile. Sara’s grip was too tight. 

If my teeth were strong enough, 
I would eat concrete. 

My mouth is full of bloody solipsism 

Jesus told a fig tree to die 
out of pure spite. 

And our hymns sing of compassion