Bullet Wounds in the Orange Sun

Written: September 18th, 2018

The orange blossoms that flourished in my grandmother's yard,

ricochet along the citrus of my soul.

Horizons torched by the flicker of the sun,

of prepubescent visions in the exhausted homeland.

Reminiscence drenched in coagulated gore.

My mother’s departed brother; explosion of the gun.

Soul that exits the atmosphere; I reach out for empty arms.

Spiritual existence in nature. Solitude that inhabits 

the tears of my mother; salt mines on a cheek.

Leaves rustle through the autumn wind, 

chimneys ignite in the distance,

Memories descend into oblivion.

The ground swallows his body,

The casket that follows his yearnings,

name written in molecules of sand.

Violence in the middle of winter,

Shell casings in the streets of the creator and destroyer.

Fragmented optimism bred in the womb of brutality.

Time will return to collect anguish; renew sounds of gaiety.

For he is never forgotten, nor stolen from the land.

Legacy that lives in water; submerged in glory.

Waves of sorrow; hands in the sea.

eyes peering through the trees.

Sounds of his voice in the hallway; familiarity pulsing through the cortex.