When Only Paper Can Save

Jam and Poppy Bouquet

Gasp of an angel on a

cloud passes

through these mountains.

Numbness of steam and fever of gleam

makes

the lungs inhale grain.

Down the river of

malice, it takes the ache away;

only peace remains...

Waters of clear nurture

and culture flow

through a domain that's called 'A Plain

With a Stain'.

Sky made of dimes with

a sun that shines

equally with the crop.

Lands

and dirt composed by

forced immigrant oppression,

it's show by

curled men that pickup.

Rays connect with green

and the earth dances to

the wind in a toxic throb...

The sweetness of

the fruit is carried in a basket,

it's a long journey

to become a dollop.

Mops

of jade and gems are dug up

by gloved hands

that hurt.

Change the tempo,

a clothed hand wearing

a ring to one

mixing velvet.

Warmth, generation pots, home;

like a grandmother

with water stains on her skirt.

Produce in baskets,

freshness doesn't need

frost to shadow

the flavor of a desert.

Aluminum to paper to cheap

linen to cotton to

train track happiness,

from the

bottom up!

Memories only live so long when

suffering becomes a drug,

and then you

can't backup.

Lid on,

steam forms petite drops of seasoning;

when the lid is taken

off they fall

and lineup.

The sun rested its head on

the clouds to get

prepared for nightfall,

time to fill the

bathtub.

Crumbly burned skin

always brings earthiness to

pruney perfumed

hands.

Busted up truck with Latin

music on,

'rojas faldas jíbaras'

and 'naturaleza' for

lost Caribbean islands.

Mason jars are lined up on the

countertop, the jam flows down

like honey strands.

Spread a savory layer

for your lover

on that toasted bread,

door opens and

all is involved in

lovebird chants.