[A poem for Mami on her birthday, Jan 7, 2021]
At the core root of every wise wicked warrior woman is the sacrificial entity that helped sharpen her knives and sculpt her wings.Know you carry this disguise until the day you die. See you sacredly wiped my blind eyes with blunt force left them discovering such knives and wings even existed to begin with—
I wake curious though.
Does it at all strain your soul living a life just to prove yourself right? Do you get to sleep deep once dissecting the heart of someone else’s fight?
..this may not be a love piece
this may not be a thank you piece
this may not be a you are my peace piece
But one can hope the life of your offspring is the baton you so urgently need it to be. One can hope 49 grants you serenity. One can hope 49 grants you vision to the divinity you’ve been too obtuse to see. One can hope at 49, you release all urge to question me.May our moments be precious whether we are in the same ring swinging, or on opposite planets lingering for the homes we could never give each other. May our galaxies continue colliding. May our avatars care to stop fighting may we depart this Earth with more rhythm than we entered it. May we do right by Lucille and celebrate the things that have tried to kill us daily only to fail desperately.
May we live to tell our stories for many more birthdays.