Yellow Sweater

When the soft rain comes,
Mama whispers my secret name. 
All is sweet. 

The rain has the ocean behind it. 

And I have your jaw, 
Solid. 
I have your dancing, 
unfettered.

Sky-grey tastes like dirt. 
LIke the gritty emptiness underneath. 

Sublime: Hands in the mud 
And fresh dew in my lungs. 

I transcend. 

A pounding, 
the taut silence between beats

Graph paper is not as solid as it seems.
The points where lines meet
are thrumming with new flowers. 

Our world is a binary one,
made of parallels and perpendiculars 
and passionate collisions.

 

My neighbors painted their house a fluorescent liliac. 
God and the Homeowner's Association are affronted. 

To be indiscreet is to abrade society like a violent shade of purple,
to be ugly, bold, and bright. 

 

London has a shimmery grit. Its ornate facades are stained. Its beautiful places are large, but sideways. The cement kills your feet. The gardens are locked behind gates.

After I cried, 
I felt clean. 

Chocolate stained teeth and puffy eyes, 
I had taken my medicine. 

The smallness in my heart is big sometimes; 
its flowers are more like fireworks.