a crescented hope;
taken to the sidelines, she hoped to hope.
toked and toked and smoked and curled
like the close of a hand, like cold fingers
folding in on themselves in winter air,
like the garden she planted in the spring,
drying and dying under frost.
she learned to word, learned to language,
only because her arms were too stiff to move;
she’d swept vowels to her breast and pushed them into her neck,
because her neck was porous as a star
and they burnt through.
her muscles cramped, and she clicked her tongue,
rolled her Rs like a blunt and folded her fingers like
smoke collapsing in on itself.
her hope slept, quiet as a thursday,
quiet as steam from tea.
she counted days and ages, watched herself
older and younger and thinner and fatter
and she watched her eyes disappear into her skull
when the nightmares ate up her days.
she didn’t know how to say them.
“dreams are like trees. if I say them, they sway,
and their roots tangle, and they fall down into the earth
like great oaken giants felled by rot.
I don’t want my dreams to rot, no matter how--
no matter how often I lay awake
or I wake up out of breath--
no matter how many times I wake up crying.”
she teethed at her tongue
and chewed on a lung,
and she breathed in hope like smoke,
coughed a bit, breathed a bit,
coughed,
and smiled as her lungs warmed.
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