on the way home from the funeral, i

fist cherry gum wrappers into my pocket and pray for origami cranes

that wouldn’t startle at the first gasp of violence.

last time i painted with a brush i told you i’m too heavy-handed

to wield an instrument of such delicacy; my instruments are my hands,

i say. but what i meant was scarred knuckles fistfighter paper tiger

that won’t buckle to anything but the

​

                                 weight 

 

                                                  of this

 

                                  silence.

​

I couldn’t breathe out for the longest time without blue-frosted

sirens ringing in my ear, tribute to this

grief collapsing in my lungs. the radio learns to speak static and

i still can’t count pennies on my own

without the numbers tripping in their almost

relentless march over my tongue, waxing something foreign

out of that derelict mass of muscle.

see, i’m no fingerpainter either. i can’t touch paint without parts of me seeping out

like a daydream a wish a plea—

my fingertips a mess of a crime scene.

you look at this tainted blue and called it purple

when really, it’s another casualty,

another gordian’s knot of heritage and birthright.

i couldn’t speak things into existence any more than i can

make birds out of my hands. yet

i have become avian somehow, the thrash of my pulse quill-like,

which means everything snaps too easily. the truth is,

i am the escape beat with no place to go. no one

to keep alive in this barren country. homeland, a used roll of film.

all i do is mourn a past that does not belong to me.

is this what growing up is?