Your mother is blooming in the periphery of a dream.
She’s in the fruit pyramids of your first memories.
How to make the right angles of your childhood
right again. If you eat a grapefruit compartmentally,
flesh by flesh. If you see an iridescent stop sign.
If you look back and only see a river.
The flower of that tree.
PATTERNS ON ANATHEMA
My grandfather walks into the yard with a machete.
I draw our last name all over our body.
My eyes are like flowers.
My arms not my arms.
A scorpion portioning out artificial light.
Once I was held at gunpoint.
Mi corazón que lleva nuestras muertos.
Then once again.
Gold is in our hair, spheres,
each smaller than red ink,
particles and atoms, their own wavelengths.
Ways to direct a circle through space.
The archetype is on fire.
Your disambiguation, your dead
make a shape you can not hear.
When one thought hides another
will you help the hands.
Your mother is dead yet she is still
telling you something you can’t hear.