____

have you ever had a child weep inside of you,
the way my mother used to cry?

the way she cried with her soapy dishwater hands

a child shouldn’t howl like that
that’s what they said,
on their way to their feasts 
and their funerals 
and their empty mailboxes with the flags still up. 

but it is just that everyone is sad
i can lick it off the air but they get mad 
when i try
     they like the salt that burns
             and they won’t give me a bandaid

i hear you, little girl
i hear you drowning in your ocean eyes —
those cicada 
sandbox 
eyes, 
with their little white collars 
and those sandpaper dusts of fire

i wore a dress like that once
but it ripped from the bottom to the top
and i knew it was finished
when they laughed 
and stapled me to my knee socks
and hung me
out to dry. 

we live deep inside the rose, 
in the shadows that breathe up out of its thorns,
with werewolves and rabbits and mermaid moth-moons
who kiss us goodnight
and tell us not to forget our lunchbox

a desert drinks itself forever
and it feels 
and
that is why they call it 
Hell because 
if they love you     	you haven’t really come.  

Faris.