I charred their bones
when I let the snow
fall up my nose. Convincing myself that falling stars
were meant to breathe
in like the Indian breeze
is meant for scorched skin. My sin was begging for snow.
So, yes, I decided to grate my bones
Confessing to them that the stars
had fallen in the Arabian Sea. But those weren’t stars,
it was just the moonlight.
“O, but please pretend– for our breeze!”
No, I should have never left Chicago without letting the snow
fall and melt my bones.
I guess I never craved sanity. My bones
must be delusional. Everyone can tell by the dilated nights
of my eyes that I am stars–
they can not breathe
easy. It was never easy for anyone. Easing away from that snow
was like losing that last breeze
of my ashen remains to the gradience in their seas– that was the last of my bones.