The way her soggy fingertips gripped mine
Like feeble iron, our palms drenched in red wine—
Her weeping baby perched upon my shoulder,
Yearning for the familiar sound of palpitating sirens.

We were next-door strangers,
But now our hands were keys, interlocked.

Our fingers were fused glass shards,
With her sculpted child, fresh and damp
Her young voice drowned in conception.

The girl’s glossy voice and shame were intertwined,
I listened like a child
Watching the syllables glide off of her tongue like knots—
unwinding.

If only they knew that things that I’ve learned.

She said:
I’ve learned that empty buckets teem with dried raindrops,
Like whipped naive tears, dripping metallic alcohol,
Evaporated throughout fluffy clouds,
Abusing gaps between the stucco and the freedom outside—
We are encapsulating crisp memories like pails, we are suffering briny innocence.

She said:
I’ve learned that thick foundation turns cakey,
Like fake identification, rupturing migrated pores,
Unrecognized by the patrol,
Concealing bruises under highlighted trepidation—
We are contouring two cultures like cake, we are beating two assembled masks.

She said:
I’ve learned that suede sneakers dance on power lines,
Like swaying floods of influence, dangling youth high,
Decayed throughout the delirious town,
Flowing crimson tears from hanging collars—
We are dancing disembodied like suicide, we are tripping on our shoes, untied.

She wept:
The weeping choked
Suspended in taut air.
The American lights flickered
The alarming havoc sounded too.

I took a breath as they crept nearer—
Two pointed guns and good intentions.

If only they knew the things that I have learned.

The child was silent.
I squeezed her moist clay hand—
The newborn’s eyelids quivered like violins,
The girl’s mouth bubbled with metaphors.
And we were all breathing—
A newborn baby, me, and her.
Giving birth to limp dreams
and waning words.