she walks along the forest path lined
with mushrooms the color of trees’
blood, sap dripping in amber
hues that are golden like the sun that
shines through spots in the leaves and
her hair flows like the orange river that
cuts through dying leaves the color of
earth and blood and fire and
she smiles, knowing that the end has come
The numbness wears away
the edges of the photograph
memory, blurring together colors until
it’s nothing but a fuzzy, faded mess
of what used to be.
Inspired by a post that said taking too many pictures while you’re having fun actually diminishes your ability to remember the happy memory.
like golden liquid it drips down
to touch the leaves
already changing in the dying light
to match burnished copper rivers
chilled by winds brought on
by a dying sunset
when they say “the world is your oyster,” do they mean
i can pull it out, screaming,
from its shell
or use it to mass produce a milky white pearl
that will sell for hundreds of dollars one day?
do they mean i can exploit it,
dig it from its watery safe haven,
put it up for auction,
people’s faces pressed against the glass, saying
“this one, this one will do”?
can i collect a whole galaxy’s worth of people’s oysters
people who just left them there in the dark depths
of the ocean in space?
can i cook them all up or eat them on the half shell,
my lips stained with the tears of their inhabitants?
i think i’d like to make a pretty penny
off these oysters,
if i can
just to taste
the salt of emotion again
Oysters $20 a pound
Oysters! Get your oysters here!
rain across my skin that dries too quickly
(I hear thunder)
manicured lawns that die in the heat
(only cactus grow here)
and mango paletas that stick parched tongues to the roof of your mouth
(but they never tasted so sweet)
as the mourning doves coo in the evening light
(and the stars never looked brighter)