The Fulcrum




The Fulcrum

ash is but the texture
of numbed out, frozen skin
                            running
fingers over the roadmap
of blemishes on a scalp
                          the frizzed hair
signature,       the baby girl
in the rain
                          waiting outside
the airport,     wet
knee-highs,    bunched up
                          skirt 
flag staking in a
       sick homeland

there was never a
safe space for her
                   inside a body,
inside 
                   her body
wherein lies the wonder
              of the scent of
              flowers 
                 (will it remain
                 post-mortem?) 

no one’s driving the
      hearses 
      of the future,
no one’s mourning
childhood because
no one can
remember the vitality
       of youth,
                   sagging puddles
                   (we’re back to
                   the waning
                   elasticity of
                   the flesh cage)

there is thunder in
the wheels
           of the getaway van,
lightning in the flash
     of recognition
when old eyes meet
each other, a storm
warning when
two people decide
not to notice
the other

there’s a way back
to sanity,
but the paths
are covered
in scar tissue

we hug ourselves,
we hide our secret-keeping arms


Published by Jennifer Patino

Poet.