by Mujibur Rohman via Unsplash

the elephants are rising in my chest

covered by your hands and feet
blowing off dead fruit flies from apples and mangoes
in your father’s kitchen
glasses standing in rows like transparent legionnaires
sharping bayonets
eating with your hands, sleeping with your heart
homeless dog, rail tracks, ruined house, needles
next to a field
overrun with wild poppies
rooted deep with their mouths wide open
unsettled and ready
to eat the blueness of my skies
to utter words
whisper consolation in the fat grass

I write when I feel, which is pretty much all the time.

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