and ashes

the bricks spread
like fire
toward the field
where the sun will beat
each shadow
into
hiding

to her skin

I finger the white papers nervously waiting for some kind of response. I am going to be a writer, I have just declared, because it it’s true and somehow-important. But momma just sits there as my shadow ripples rapidly across her knees, into her lap and over her shoulders, repeatedly washing over her like a frantic, angry spirit.
Momma rocks more than any other mom I know. Some mom’s cook a lot, clean every day, or drive too much. My momma rocks. She rocks quickly with one foot always pressed flat into the ground and the other pointed sharply towards the TV. I swear she can see me, despite her lab-rat gaze and I am nearly certain she hears my trembling voice. Sometimes, if I wait long enough, (the human background to her methodical movements)- she will turn towards me with a snarled upper-lip to touch my hair or answer a question. Can I go to Roxy’s house I will ask and like a guinea pig, or some other round-eyed creature, she mumbles yes or no without breaking her transfixed stair towards the television. I am hoping for something, anything this time to encourage my latest discovery.
I am a writer, I think, silently this time.
The papers have begun to feel damp in my moist grasp. I hold them to my chest, where their glowing whiteness contrasts with my sun-beat skin. Startled by a spark of pain, I look down to see a bright red stripe spreading across my palm where I have accidently sliced my skin. The papers, a simple little book made of construction paper and pen, slip through my fingers, arms and elbows, as a surge of heat burns through my stomach towards my throat. The sheets of paper pause mid-air before gliding towards the floor into a dazzling parade of anemic checkers. I wonder if momma knows how much I need her to pick them up with me, how much I long for her to look at them and touch them to her skin, to her memory.
I slowly turn toward the television, where a country-music-singing cowboy sings of heartache and whiskey. My momma's chair sways back and forth in a subtle display of excitement, rustling my papers amidst the light waft of oak and disappointment.

Whisper-screams

Remember the night we
whisper-screamed

careful not to rustle
crinkling jackets and
soggy jeans

just in case we missed
a buzz, a word, a murmer?

At Night I'm Still a Child

At night I am still a child.
My mind studies the day a million miles from my body's desire to sleep. Restless, weary, tied up and tied down by strained, stressed and knotted blankets- my eyes remain the amber attraction of floating particles, illuminated in a copper stream above my bed.

The cold smell of blue moon rays, piercing through my sheets, bursts into fruit flavored nostalgia.

The foggy lamp light outside my cold bedroom encloses the night in a hazy shroud, not unlike the spindly exhalation of a wet breath against a cotton candy sky.

Reaching toward the thick light, my hand is precariously encased in saran wrap glass.

I bend and I fold outward,
downward,
toward the spongy landscape of cherry blossom grass and sparkling clean footprints, rising like Lego blocks and checkering the scene for miles.