Two Parts of Overlap

I. Boy

I found your heart tied to a peach tree in our back yard.
When I touched its pulse, morning fell into night
and the ground around me burned blue.
We are asleep in a circle of dropping stars,
your circle swarms me like thirst and I need glass
for shattering vowels and spinning black space.
Darkness drips forever, just listen to rain.
 
You deliver stones to my stomach and I digest
into snow, ash, and red milk.  You need to eat white;
eggshells, canvas, sclera, tapioca, nacre, jasmine rice.             
You only like melting. I steam wax
and weigh myself in ocean to remember color.
We all love you and you matter like deep blue to me.
Live your peace in spirals and seams.
If there is a spell to undo the world,
children will float and fall asleep in seashells.

Every seed whispers of tiny prodigies.

Sometimes it scares me when you play with smoke
like you have no idea why we breathe.

II. Girl

That winter I ate pomegranates in the shower.
When I cut it in half, my heart burst
brilliant red-violets into my hands.
Water-nectar, I slipped into it,
put the fruit to my mouth like a kiss.
Juice stained my skin and I felt like earth.
The arils rained all over white tile
and after a few days, reds faded
and violet marks on the walls
turned blue heavy.

Now it’s the first day of spring
and we are the world’s balance;
yin yang, sun moon, dry ripe,
Venn diagram.
Yet I am still breathing him
blue in my dreams.
I wake up and depth surrounds me.
It drowns me.

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