i.

safe spaces

threadbare sanity comforted

by a familiar ease

it feels like my mother’s cradle —  

a home cooked meal.

 

annihilate any shred of fleas

of this new dimension, a new sphere

since landing and clutching

for green bricks out of the empty air

deep breaths are for dreams, and dreams

are for people who know they are free.

 

 

ii.

their glance reeks

of cemetery stones clutching at souls,

sailing out despite prayers.

a white bloodbath this heavy, this raw.

                 this                       close

 

blame the fire at the radio station —

don’t let them see you

fumble at the bread table. 

they sit quietly inside with bad intentions

lurk and disguise,

coloured in desperation.

owning what's not theirs to start with,

killing what they haven't built.

 

 

iii.

sit still, lie still, and sit some more

concrete candles are waiting.

each is lit for a life worth saving.

 

a type of sunset no one likes.

 

this land never gave anything that's mine.

this is how i feel.

what was taken from me, what was given.

 

waiting for the tides to change

when i control the waves

what's the opposite of an omen?

a nagging sense of relief.