The aching tick of

Time’s ossified hands

Grave-digging the skull

Out from some womb-like structure.

The cool, buried memories

I have of baby-rocking hands

Glowing pink with care

That had me floating like I never did—

Hands that hovered around my aches—

Pink-tinted daisies

I still keep in my pocket

When the world becomes too heavy to hold.

I know she’s still here.

I see her in city office windows

Where lovers grope each other’s waists 

And kiss like no one is watching.

I see her in the spaces

Between strangers on the Path

Their hips barely grazing but wanting to 

Meld together like metal tracks and sparks do.

Like homeless bodies and concrete,

She was the ground that kept me here

When my mind was on Mars 

And my soul scrapped like car parts

And I still call her name

And I still hear my name being called.

Marmalade spread

Onto thick caramelized white bread.

My sustenance.

My feeding when I wouldn’t take my mother’s milk.

I’ve asked you to rest, 

But you follow me

Wiping my hot scalp clean

Whispering when the fire threatens to take me

Being a constellation in the blanket of dark

Everlasting sky—