Last night while I slept
I drew a mosaic out of mermaids
and drowned them all.
Their eyes were dried and cracked
like they had been crying for too long.
Immature flames fumbling for a breath.

Today I dream God has made me
a fantastic garden.
Only, the azaleas are crying,
too.
They bleed like tiny hearts scratching
inside a chest of exile.
They burst like swollen lungs filled
with stones.
Like Sylvia Plath's poppies.

Today I am atomic bomb.
I am ticking the way
lonely souls
fall in love.
I am listening from inside my grandfather's
cigar box, rolled between two pieces
of crumpled newspaper,
I am a skinny child hiding
under a screen of smoke,
wearing it like a blanket,
waiting to be blown to pieces.