Every morning when I wake up, I lean out my window to say hello to Mom. She doesn't reply, but that's okay. She never was a good listener, even before she was buried in our backyard.
My brothe ... [+]
each other, you ask?
By our palimpsest of scars and wrinkles,
every inch of skin marked by the shooting
of stars, the spinning of the Earth
yielding under similarly marred fingertips.
By the taste of our mouths,
the dust of fallen empires,
dead dinosaur cells,
and myriad wines' noble rots
embedded in the ridges of our tongues
sucked clean at last.
By the look in our eyes,
a glimmer sharp as the edge
of a knife that has cut through
tender flesh and ripe strawberries alike.
A knife that slices you
a homecoming feast.