Category: poems

God’s arms heal better than mine.

I love you. I miss you.

You are the last I enshrine.

.

An angel’s wings are stitched and refined.

Your brother is waiting in your life anew.

God’s arms heal better than mine.

.

Three nights ended where you held in straight lines.

Your final puff of sleep came, too.

You are the last I enshrine.

.

I hold to the hope our paths intertwine.

Now days think themselves to be less true.

God’s arms heal better than mine.

.

Grandma saw you in clouds and heeded the sign.

Tears heave our chests, as those of family do.

You are the last I enshrine.

.

It’s hard to accept: you, I will never find.

I love you. And I miss you.

But God’s arms heal better than mine.

Baby, my baby, you are the last I enshrine.

as an adult i’ve begun to really cherish my mornings, and my soul feels heavier when the morning cascades to darker shadows and shades and finally it’s night. the night is a familiar friend, so i’ll stay up with her even though i’m wasted with weariness and slipping into the sleepiness she pours me. as a kid, she made me feel mature and wild, so i’d compete with the night to see who could stay awake the longest.
the morning is new now. i’ve acquainted her after all my years without understanding her. she’ll saturate me with a morning cup for my hangover from the insomnia hours before, and she’ll wait with me by the window where the sunlight stripes us both—across my lonely plant, across my messy books, across my inches of exposed desk—in pleasant chiaroscuro that crisscrosses like croissants. the morning will sit with me with no words. And in the quiet moments, i’ve begun to fall in love with her.

I cried in the shower.
I cried in the bus.
I cried in very strange places
every time I thought of us.

I loved, and I loved,
with my capacity to give.
(I gave so much and forgot
to leave myself enough to live)

I watched the sky cascade into dark paints,
I watched the night melt the sun—

Now I count mornings like fingers
five
four
three
two
one