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
Thistle Thoughts 