“Life? ‘Course I’ll live it.
Let me have breath, Just to my death,
And I’ll live it.” – Maya Angelou
* * *
You tear at the corners, rip it open, just to see what color the stuffing is. White, but every kind. Ghost white, snow, ivory, old lace, vanilla.
This lustful life –
Your cheeks are packed full of orange and yellow sweet potatoes. You’re gunna choke, but manage to wash all the mess down with bitter wine – so sour and slick with tang.
Manic Mondays and Tuesdays, that bleed blood red and purple into the rest of the week. There’s so much color and texture, that your eyelids are sore to the touch the next morning.
You rub them at your alarm. Your head aches, from your temples, down your spine. Time unfolds like helix coils, unzipped. Tap your tongue to the top of your mouth, then glide past every segregated tooth.
Coals from last night’s bonfire glow in the mid-morning light. With a rubber hose, you wash them black and run through the sizzling steam. You want every part of your jacket to smell like that.
There is a wall of muffled sound: Trains screeching as they slide to a stop, cars humming on the freeway, doors opening and shutting, honking, talking, rustling, music playing.
You write poetry.
Speak a native language.
Play an instrument.
Use public transportation.
Listen to music.
Talk friends out of suicide.
Watch the sun set.
Eat home cooked meals.
Wrestle with Faith.
Believe in God.
All while you live, this lustful life.