New Orleans, Louisiana

A few years ago I found myself in a modest room trying to bring back the words. The pastel’d wombs whose fingers ceased to trace. It was there were my visions, my omens, my hallucinations reversed.

Sadness christened me, my rivers, my laughter, my ability to manipulate that unceasing spirit inside of me. I don’t write these words to justify the madness that sometimes corrupts me.

You who reads this, whose seen the animals at my knees. Recreating is all I know, it’s how I breathe, how I love.

I remember being three with angels thoughtful of my stomach steadily shaping my memory. . .