“Put your lips where my body creases”

Do not expect fruit where a bloodline

no longer lives.

My grandmother used to be a country.

Used to be a house.

She wore soil under her fingers,

Deep brown kissing nail beds.

She was full

It is tradition for all the girls to wear a war like a blouse.

We don’t linger on that anymore though. This poem does not have enough space for that kind of burial.

The casket fits here

Where your lips

are looking

for a pulse

---

Featured image: The image is released free of copyrights under Creative Commons.