Falling backwards into
Grocery carts and empty souls
Double dipped in the Atlantic
It’s frantic how we
Grab inky onions and expect them to end our existential crises
While they simply soak in the blood of our language
(Peel the skins off and it will drip from the core
Divining your truth on the cutting board)
Juice sinks into teeth
And we seethe when it stains us, how we breathe
But we grew this fruit, so
We will buy it or bury it in the earth where it was born
And I wonder will we be torn from the ties of our tethering, teetering terra
And move on to a burning celestial Sahara.
I am written in the small white flowers that dance across the banks of the highways
Hopping, halting, harrowing.
I want to dip my fingers in sunset sky
I want skeletal wings, and to make them fly.