Tea-stains
The afternoon rips our arms apart,
The snowdrop calls for the hare,
the river unbegotten
and forgotten of our names
and dead still inside the pot
waiting at the stovetop,
a heartbeat of memory,
a minute-long place
where the tea has stained
a bruised heart,
a wavelength of quietly
sneaking in the extra teaspoon of sugar
into the world,
the lunch that’s never early,
the bite that’s never too late
and I, for a moment,
asleep,
not letting go against
another day’s passing curl;
your kin- distant into the sun,
the frying pan of childhood,
scattering the breadcrumbs
away from home,
growing the olives
against the midnight whisper of the sea.
I prick in the thorns,
teaching the soul amaranthine
and the corvids laugh
so hard my dreams
are shaken off their pedestal.
These bodies of sparkly dust
choose like puppets,
pry into the sky
for fairies and unnamed stars:
I want to preach innocence
when the choice is
hurt.hurt.hurt.
I want to be the raindrop
returning
to the earth.
Color me in Cyanide and Cherry 
Tell me something