BY PORSHA ALLEN
The boy with moon skin spoke of stars &
a black sun, of trees holding themselves
up by the root, of apple picking & how
his father turned to air just before he was
born & of how his mother tried to claw
him out of her own womb because of it.
He spoke of blue rivers turned red ocean.
I spoke of blue rivers turned red ocean. We
spoke of hands & the ones that touched
us. We used our hands to try & forget the
ones that touched us.