I followed the railroad home
with the wind and the earth beneath me and
the gilded stars dotted in the opaque sea
above, stars of pearl beads scattered
across the floor, tied together
with Mama’s old broken
necklaces like starling’s eyes staring
back at
me.
I followed the railroad home
with the stirring sea on my right and
the faltering bits of city peeking through the
strawberry hills to my left, as the rain
melted city lights into a watercolor
and soft dreams that
came and
went
like the dream I had with the eight-year-old girl
on the other end of the railroad, for a home not
haunted by the everlasting smell of dead
cigarettes and vodka, no longer having to play hide
and seek in the closet or asking,
can I sleep over tonight again?
to her best friend
like the dream I had with the Ukrainian boy
on the other end of the railroad, for a home not
cooked red from war, oil-stained walls charred
black, traces of smoked pepper perpetually
suspended in the air
like the dream I had with the invisible stranger
on the other end of the railroad for a home not
drowning in the land of tears, and if only I
could paint the sky, I would reach into the
glowing moon-bellies of bullfrogs and pull out
crescents of their heart and paint firefly wings
so that they would know what it feels like
to fly.
If I could paint the sky, I would dip
my fingertips in the orange sunset and
smear my blood across the canvas
like it’s just chalk,
and I would unwind my sinews that you
cast of iron and steel
to knit you a sweater because
how could I hate you?
and maybe, only then,
only when you see the stains of blood
lined against an angel’s wings,
only when you see fireflies falling,
plummeting from the sky like
a meteor shower, only then
will you see the rivers of dust and debris
bleeding at your feet.
If only I could paint the sky
but I walk along
the railroad tracks,
pebbles soundlessly, wordlessly
weeping beneath my feet
across the frozen wasteland and wreckage of fallen stars
forever
following
them
home.
with the wind and the earth beneath me and
the gilded stars dotted in the opaque sea
above, stars of pearl beads scattered
across the floor, tied together
with Mama’s old broken
necklaces like starling’s eyes staring
back at
me.
I followed the railroad home
with the stirring sea on my right and
the faltering bits of city peeking through the
strawberry hills to my left, as the rain
melted city lights into a watercolor
and soft dreams that
came and
went
like the dream I had with the eight-year-old girl
on the other end of the railroad, for a home not
haunted by the everlasting smell of dead
cigarettes and vodka, no longer having to play hide
and seek in the closet or asking,
can I sleep over tonight again?
to her best friend
like the dream I had with the Ukrainian boy
on the other end of the railroad, for a home not
cooked red from war, oil-stained walls charred
black, traces of smoked pepper perpetually
suspended in the air
like the dream I had with the invisible stranger
on the other end of the railroad for a home not
drowning in the land of tears, and if only I
could paint the sky, I would reach into the
glowing moon-bellies of bullfrogs and pull out
crescents of their heart and paint firefly wings
so that they would know what it feels like
to fly.
If I could paint the sky, I would dip
my fingertips in the orange sunset and
smear my blood across the canvas
like it’s just chalk,
and I would unwind my sinews that you
cast of iron and steel
to knit you a sweater because
how could I hate you?
and maybe, only then,
only when you see the stains of blood
lined against an angel’s wings,
only when you see fireflies falling,
plummeting from the sky like
a meteor shower, only then
will you see the rivers of dust and debris
bleeding at your feet.
If only I could paint the sky
but I walk along
the railroad tracks,
pebbles soundlessly, wordlessly
weeping beneath my feet
across the frozen wasteland and wreckage of fallen stars
forever
following
them
home.
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