Her dreams taste too small. Too big to lean into. So she folds herself into block mazes on tiny screens and cries quietly behind her eyelids. We are all of us trying to escape ourselves.
Two children to tow along, through the currents that try to drag her under. All of them have seaweed nesting in their hair. Sometimes she ties their hands together with salty shells. And together they float beneath a sun turned angry.
She has forgotten how to recycle. Can’t even spell it without thinking really hard. The palms of her hands are soft like the inside of her discipline. And she is trying. Trying to tread water with her mouth full of sand. It’s all she can.
creating art in the desert 