" Flight Patterns of Brown "
Moths with their fur mouths
leave their larvae in my rice.
I watch disregarded homes rise
like brown paper, wet and thin
between my fingers. Remember
the brown of my nipple
and how fades into the white
of your skin. I have forgotten
my name, the places I live.
I have forgotten everything
except the touch of wings.
all the worlds asleep,
beggars have gone home
to cardboard boxes and the poets
have left their pens to dream
I am born with all the shades of brown,
burnt siennas and the clay. I am left
with all her memories, an ability
to wrap around, grow heavy, fly away.
© 2002 Treezaa (T. E. Ballard)
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