i can see that my future is flowers growing -
they slow the wind and stop thick rain drops so that only
cool breezes and light mists will goosebump my flesh while her heart's beat
moves the tiny bones in my ears and the ribs in my chest.
my future is a wedding in a small garden,
early one june evening, where people whose wounds i've tended
will carry colored glasses that throws small segments of the
sun's spectrum straight into the blacks of our eyes.
my past is not past, though, i tis right here and it is
a machete- slicing open arteries,
tearing through ligaments and spilling synovial fluid-
hacking at my skeleton, crushing through the cancellous and
exposing my soft marrow to the cold, dry air
as what's left of me pulls itself toward those flowers. to that garden