“Grow wild according to thy nature.”
Henry David Thoreau, Walden
I can’t picture your eyes across this divide, but I can still trace over the scars. The broad strokes, the pinks and purples that blended together to paint a mosaic of your more reluctant victims. It was windy that day, that much I know. That day my ashes rose in pirouettes and each cinder whispered my name. Never had I reached such great heights. I was eleven in 1940, smaller than most my age, but I shone brightly. Some called the light beautiful. Do you remember me? You worked the oven, and the oven worked me into ash and cinder. In soot, not long since flame, I fell quietly upon your unadorned collar and mocked your uniform with dust-ridden stars as dark as night. My grays and blacks formed a patchwork that smoldered warm with shame. Your shame. I hope they’re right about guilt, whoever they are that say it’s a burden. I forever rest on your shoulders, and I pray to your god I weigh you down.
“I like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more.”
When autumn comes, she’ll be there
Jasmine still in her hair
Her tea leaves dry by the sea
Iron & Wine
Through all my city grays, you’re the one spot of color.
Who says you can’t have it both ways?