I think the sky was birthed from anger.

like one day the ground got so fed up

with it’s own tangibility

it started screaming,

quaking and breaking,

all sharp edges.

and out of the ground’s mouth came sky.

blue and open and

born out of such a complex rage.

like if you look up and scream

the sky will swallow it for you.

like the sky was created to absorb everything

the ground couldn’t stomach.

there lie decaying bodies

and up here lay their rage.

like the sky looked back down at the ground

the day it was born,

and said who hurt you.

my mother used to scold me

for looking up too often,

trying to find my way to the end of blue ceiling

follow eyes to sharp edges, fixed corner.

i always ended up on pavement,

scraped knees bleeding

pleading,

kneeling on the ground’s open mouth

sitting on tongue of

exhausted broken concrete

my mother told me to tie my shoelaces

lace up eyelids,

look at where you’re walking.

I think the sky smiles sometimes,

like maybe she was born from anger

but has no spite left.

like years of untapped grey space have only left her yearning.

and loving

and she sees me

spinning on grassy field

still half drunk on laughter

lets her stars drip cranberry juice

and laughs along with me.