Weekend Musings

I.

Something about the number
Three
Makes my heart stop.

I watch the traffic signal
dissolve into the sidewalk.

Moonlight sits on a blade of grass
and plays the saxophone.

The city feels acrobatic -
air tracing hula hoops
and bulb filaments swallowing light.
Behind closed doors,
there are orgasms and death alike;
Evocative.

Your face is an accumulation
of weed,
Winter,
and depression.
You talk to your windows,
as if they disobeyed and let clouds
slip into your medicine cabinet.

II.

At the sight of Spring, today
the woven butterflies with cotton antennae,
flapping their polka-dotted wings,
flew away from my sock prints - 
their home
for the past fourteen weeks. 

III.

You reminded me
that your in-laws are making you suicidal.
I listened to you unswallow your words,
push out air
from your lungs, so you may turn red
with cough.

They want your womb utilized.

Your husband entertains the prospect,
too.
Your womanhood is secondary to him.
Greedy, selfish,
Dutiful son.

And then you said,
Mother told me
I was dead, the day I was born.
Leaving in you a gaping scar,
that your in-laws furrow.
Adding acid to your blood -
You say, your words slurring in liquor.