Jan 08

of it all

we are not beautiful for our skin and faces—
we are beautiful for our bones and minds,
brittle they can be.

soap suds run down my fingers. 
we are nothing, yet 
at all. 

i hope he sees me—
the boy with corn-gold hair. 
because i am not nothing; 
i am everything at all. 

people often think that because 
i’m quiet, i see nothing. 
but that’s not true. 
i see the world
when most ignore it. 

there was a woman taking down the flag
because she couldn’t bear to look at it
after what has gone completely wrong. 
i heard a boy whispering to another
about the girl he loves. 
i heard the fear in her voice
as she struggled to think of the students in her
first period class.
the boy glued to his phone,
the girl getting her hair braided after school,
the soup he makes after a long day,
the harsh reprimands from daughter to mother,
the small arm squeezes and forehead kisses,
the lone daisy growing among tulips—
i have seen and heard it all, 
and the world is mine.
(and i am the world).

i long for life and love;
i write of life and love
and the pure enormity of it all. 

my half-broken heart (creaky, dusty)
beats in rhythm with my battered lungs. 

i realize that we are all the same:
flesh and bones come together.