DeAnna Esquilin

Dead Poets are liked pursed clams camped in hallow graves
Glassed, cold, mute but wiggling.
Clicking their deep hand prints in secret places
It seems strange to go seeking illumination from such sad & blighted ghosts
...

The able bodied never know what it means to be shipwrecked in a bustling metropolis.

We do not meet the staircase as mountains
Or know the true sacrifice of the “long way” by force
...

It’s the smallest things about you my friend…
The most inane jesters..
There
Like Nubian royalty
...

We are a “Thing.”
“We just hang there”
you say…
...

How I long envied the fated ones with passions to define them.
Breathing work as natural as gravity.
The weight of their initiatives warping the fabric of their lives.
...

Iris….

I think before…
When I knew you in the womb
...

My Fur-Faced - Cow Cat- Feline little boy
Extended his double paws like furry mitts
In a stretch that only human’s envy
...

186 miles away
I feel your bitterness beloved…
It salivates like famished lions with spiked teeth
Seething to consume me in the black distance
...

Some women…
No matter their physicality
Seem to be born with an intrinsic sweetness
Their voices pour like warm oil
...