by Noah Haalilio Solomon
halfway through overripe avocado,
moments before pit slip as
fingers scathed the sharp serration
dawned the difference between warm halos radiating
soft white light
and the storm of plummeting spears
downward to where gossamer flesh worn
barely escapes the familiar puncture.
9 nights nocturnal: existing in moonshine
and the groan of wind – there i am,
sneaking like vines through barren dirt
up stucco wall, through fecundity’s absence
yielding bleakly mostly porous and nothing but hands
gently washing fruit of rough exterior,
and dreams for the wild and the mad.
and this is what we’ve come to?
i cling to the chord that never stops,
in the song that lasts 10 minutes,
and the sikh sings peace back into my depths and i mark the point
over unblemished sand dunes where i indulge in powdery wisps of
zeal and buoyancy,
to float in this space where grief pools dark and quickly
like the blood of a clean ripe wound.
is it gone? i see lines curve, toward and against one another
and come to sharp corners that hurt to look at and the conflict is
and i no longer see what i’m fighting for.
silence sought. it stays awhile, then broken and here
are the shards of memory that tread
stubbornly in the foreground,
nagging at the delicacy of the flow that sometimes
because i have nothing left in me to give.