Arzelia

Red Dirt Dirt as dry as the night sky without its moon Plastering sunlight Infused with rhythm A rhythm that holds tiny fingers And twirls tiny toes To country music On a cold wooden floor The same wooden floor I took my first steps on Imagine in one given moment my center implodes in millimeters when they have tried time after time to impel me to smile Their eyes bathed me with affection While they mouthed the words “My granddaughter” “My niece” A baby girl born to men Men armed with life experiences to be soldiers Today I mourn the memories of pictures Burned in rage Of men Who whistled Down south talk In the mist of silhouettes of atmospheric sunsets I hear The sounds of phones booming 3 am Don’t kill my vibe On steady replay The song of the week Becomes the song of hell I watched your wings shed layers of youth as the cool breeze quieted your once warm body. savoring your every last word as it taunts those you have left behind. The spirit in you both are at ease You escaped When I suddenly answered that one call The sound of weeping flooded the speakers And I drowned in silence My pen tongued the lips of my paper In sorrow My guardian soldiers Of badly bruised flesh Were broken The sound of tears Were streaming down the faces Of funeral attendees Like buckets of water