arsenic-sea

In a street untouched lit only by yellowed lights stood a simple doe ears swooping heavenward listening nothing but a silhouette among the whispering snow

The snow groans beneath our shoes I can’t take my eyes off the white flecks that frost your hair You stir the air with your soft words that glide from your lips in wisps of wintry breath The descending flakes reflect in your cocoa eyes Your hand, heavy and warm preserves mine We make our way through the winter months

There is power here. I feel it coursing through my veins, pooling in my joints. Embroidering my irises with its frozen fire. Violin strings and Gregorian hymns lift the potential in this mane of hair, the cello is a lullaby resounding. Music is sometimes the only way for me to articulate the butterflies valiantly flapping in my throat. Something about the endless heartbeat of the drum the pulse of the world and of my mothers and my sisters and those who came before me. Endless. It is the rhythm of our feet, one dogged step after another. When I walked the desert, dust in my ears, in my mouth and in my eyes I knew this drumbeat, I knew