My words open on petals of tongue-tied
questions. Shaffolding lights peal across rhythms of broken
bones, and my hand finds its way into their railings, gripping
tightly like a child's fear twisting my clenching fingers.
Asking and questions never walk
together side by side. I watch by the riverside, blowing across
candles that make their way through empty weeds of answers, and
cold-hearted replies.

My brother tugs at my shirt, and tells me he would like to live
in a cardboard box, made of torn shirts and thousand-mile shoes.
Such is the way his mind works, struggling to break free of the prison
I planted there when he was old enough to ask questions. So I tear off mine,
hand it to his gleaming face and let him work on a dream that will never happen.

I used to walk by the neighborhoods, scuffing my shoes along
yellowed pavement, leaving black streaks that warned children
not to come any closer. But they did, so I planted a prison in them,
letting them dream of ripped fabric, worn-out pathways. Their peals of laughter
rang through an avenue of black spider-faces and greying strands that
clamped onto heads of unsuspecting strangers.

I would like to grow old, I think. Sleep on days of panic and
work when the world sleeps in peaceful ignorance. My brother would take
his cardboard house, place it in my front yard. Watch
as I weed the garden of empty lies and precipitate minds, until all that is left is the
strange wonder of new skin, new eyes. Watch as I carefully plant more seeds,
spreading a path that would carve out new flowers and dying petals.

Laugh, as I build a new set of gates around me
that would spring, fully formed,
into prison bars.