roaches desecrate the wood
that once
fed the fire
so they walk 3 miles further
and three miles back
to bake the bread , that feeds the ache within their stomachs
the screaming started at 1am
when the child remembered
the smell of that morsel that at one time had fed her frail frame
she had forgotten
the goodness of its taste
the wonders of it matriculating on her tongue
the way it makes her feel in her toes
when the warmth wanders just a bit down
past her belly...
the hugs she throws up in the room
when she feels whole
like parts of her are full enough to fill other parts
you see- she walks everyday.
everyday she wakes and walks
to soothe the torment of her empty vessel
to make flames.
to make flames for her family.
to stare at the empty eyes of the people
across from her she once knew..
to chew on the remains of the days
that held laughter
and dreams
these are the memory days
the days were she imagines the desert
to be full of daffodils
daffodils that grow grapes.
the memory days
hold within them
visions...
the clouds become his face
and they reach out for her hand
folding each finger back, ever so gently until only the pointer remains
And he thrusts it up for her, towards the sky
running/ leaping/ galloping
she runs across the mountain top pasture of her dreams
as if her finger is a flag
a flag that says
mourn.
she runs. and runs and runs and runs and runs and runs....
until, her sorrowing heart weighs her to the ground
her heavy body forms itself a place in the sand
her fingers buried deep within...
...she scoops up the handful-watching carefully as it pours to the ground
whispering to each small glimmer:
“its okay”.
