Choices

When she slept on the grass, it seemed she were a plant. And if you’d pluck one of her leaves she’d no longer be able to express her pain.

When she slept on the winds, it seemed she were a cloud. And if there’s a storm she’d breakdown in happiness.

When she slept on a palm, it seemed she were a child. And if her mother returned she’d smile in her sleep.

When she slept in my eyes, it seemed she were aglow. And if the angels came, they’d burn in her flame.

When she slept inside me, it seemed she were awake. And if ever she were to wake up from the others, she promised she’d sleep inside me.

The First Gun

And still they lingered on her lips. The children. The tale of those who were lost with their fading childhood. Reproduction was an exact name. A re-creation of their childhood. A restoration of selves. A wooden plank on the river bed. Flowing. Empty.

After their mother had kissed them, they had ran outside with with the wooden plank.