by Sondra Kay Lankford
I amÂ burning like the dry mesquite field
in West Texasâ€¦scorching sun teasing
the flames, bullying the blaze into amplifying.
It spreads its unforgiving fingers towards the
black window of nothing illusions.
Where is the rain? The glorious slivers of
healing that calm the tides and settle the ashes?
People live in false realities
where one manâ€™s trash is another oneâ€™s treasure.
Where pride and guilt are weaved into quilts of threaded envy.
Beauty is truth and chance combined,
each soul merely registers its forms in different colors and heats.
Yours is blueâ€¦a dancing mirage as I smoke.
Her walk heaves with hesitation
and her bones ache with prurience that absorbs
the famished peel of a spoiling fruit.
I remember your laughter, pensive splash of juice
that only fooled yourself. Take the sheet from your
tainted eyes and will your heart to see.
Questions are eagerly asked while reluctantly answered.
Your defense can only impede the offense,
scores of salted memory and seared ambition
have taken over the boat and youâ€™re tossed aside,
fighting the gooey waves of smut that clogged
your dreams on hot nights.
Some days are spent dreaming, encased in dark
silhouette of sweet nonsense that smells of clean
mint and nectarine.
I lay down in the fragile leaves to see if I can feel the earth move.
Soft strings and braids kissing the soil and grass that exist
in this single moment â€“ just me and everything.
My heart curls up to the chest of it all and purrs deeply
like the spoiled tabby, fat full of milk.