Writings

Coin Purse

Under the desert’s black light
scorpions glow so bright,
they’re no longer terrors but stars.

The sky is bruised and you,
wounded from too many bar fights,
cradle your children, your guts and say:
I may be dying, but I love despite these odds.

That’s what bravery is:
never asking to be saved, only loved.

Love is why I scour phone booths;
toss couch cushions; steal all the coins
in gas station charity jars
for enough money to buy your heart back.
We all need change,
a fistful of dimes moored in our muddy fountains
wishing, glinting with the sun

Honey, you say, I’m in pieces.
But so are constellations
and science will never name
the miracles I’ve held
inside you.

 

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