P
*Pixie* Stix
Guest
There are miracles that happen
she said,
when everything is made visible.
We see the cracks and fissures in our soil:
We speak of suicides and intimacies,
of longing lush like wet furrows,
of oceans bearing us toward imagined riches,
of burning humiliations and crimes by the government.
Of self hate and of love that breaks through silences.
We are lightning and justice.
Our souls become transparent like glass
revealing tears for war-dead husbands
red running deep from abuse
jagged wounds from barbed wire.
We must recognize ourselves at last.
We are a rainforest of color and noise.
We hear everything.
We are unafraid.
Our language is beautiful.
she said,
when everything is made visible.
We see the cracks and fissures in our soil:
We speak of suicides and intimacies,
of longing lush like wet furrows,
of oceans bearing us toward imagined riches,
of burning humiliations and crimes by the government.
Of self hate and of love that breaks through silences.
We are lightning and justice.
Our souls become transparent like glass
revealing tears for war-dead husbands
red running deep from abuse
jagged wounds from barbed wire.
We must recognize ourselves at last.
We are a rainforest of color and noise.
We hear everything.
We are unafraid.
Our language is beautiful.
