#apoemeverynight — Public Fediverse posts

Dream of Baton Rouge

I was in the poppies.
You were a vacancy,
a flower shaped hole in my world.
It was there, that I wanted.
I wanted so badly and I wanted to share it with you;
the wanting.
The carving of red emptiness out of a void.
Red words that wanted to be read aloud and to you;
In the poppies.

It was in the poppies, I think.
The jasmine and the dahlias had wilted to brown emptiness.
You were there, in red and I wanted.
A red yearning (the poppies)
so fierce and hollowing, so reticent, so empty,
so eager to be shared,
and I wanted to pick them for you.

I was right there in the poppies.
A solitary moment in the wanting.
Standing there, with all my red desires,
smears rimming my eyes and the corners of my mouth,
The shame,
I almost showed it to you. The red one.
There in the poppies.

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Chai

On mornings like this
silent with my chai steaming
in the chill air,
I remember conversations in their imagined type styles;
heavy block sans serifs that made sure I would know
how men run
and hold their wrists in unwaveringly straight planes,
my name set apart
in light serifed italics
wherever I was called on to participate in physical education,
and
the unintentionally bold helvetics as she asked
why I didn't want her
like a husband should.

Font choice
conveys so much
of what one means to say.

Chai

On mornings like this,
silent with my chai steaming
in the chill air
I remember conversations in type:

Heavy block san serifs
to ensure I would know
how men run
and hold their wrists in unwaveringly straight planes;

my name, set apart
in light serifed italics
whenever I was called upon
to Physical Education, and

the unintentional bold
helvetics as she asked
why I didn't want her
like a husband should.

Still, my chai is sweet
and spiced,
in its curling eastern script,
the sky is open in its kerning,
and the morning is blank before me, waiting to be filled.

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Density

I want
for a day
to speak the language
of songbirds;

maybe
on the branch of a cherry tree
hidden in the pink,
snow like blossoms,
a soliloquy
about the joy of
hollow bones in flight,

or perhaps
just outside the window
perched
In a yaupon
flush with scarlet berries,
a lengthy sonnet to the sun
as it highlights
the way you ripple the bath
with your wings.

It's a small thing
to want,

I think,

just the one day
to wake without the density
of bones and
sing.

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Colorado Springs

Dandelions sprout;

effortlessly climbing,
always upward,

they turn into the light and
remind our faces
that the sun still loves us.

They need no cultivation or special treatment,
growing in their own light,
freely
spreading tiny fey umbrellas with joyous breath.

Dandelions are hardy and grow everywhere with no agenda
but to nurture.
They are brilliant harbingers of love
that decorate our world with their colorful lives.

And frequently,
they
are cut down
so that suburban family lawns can feel safe
from fear.

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