The sky was changing, from light blue with thin strands of white to pink and purple and blue. But it was so genuine and new. I didn't know if it was the beer or the fact that the sky was unbelievably beautiful now. I looked at the pond and saw a pink reflection sinking into the waters. I ran out of film.

I quickly paced to the swerve of the park, racing with the clouds and the darkness of the end of day. I made it to my neighborhood, walking alongside stray cats and hopping birds with seeds falling out of their mouths. A man with a looped belly stared as he wiped his sweaty forehead and a woman picking up sticks near her mailbox didn't turn to greet me.

The mystery man's lights were beaming through his closed blinds and I felt his eyes. The weeds were plucked and thrown on the sidewalk; my sister was sitting with her muddy feet up against a chair. The sky was gray and mosquitoes blurred my eyes like a camera out of focus, and I hugged the shadows of the black garage.

My mother's image in the car replayed, the way her ears resembled mine, the way my ears resembled hers and how my hair droops down along my head. I fell in love with her and the way the black leaves appeared separate from the sky, unlike an oil painting. The world was all that it is...and I saw it for that moment.

The Sleeptalker

At four in the morning, I thirst. Warm and bubbly my saliva tastes,
a candy-like essence of rum.
Ice knocks in my cup as I drink,
and I sit and talk to my sleeping sister in the shadowed bed across from me. Her eyelashes cascade her purple cheeks,
sweet like the taste of the night's sparkling cups of spirits and talkativeness,
confidence and epiphanies included in the bottle.
And I sit there talking, mouthing and creating a story,
answering questions to an interview.
I forget if I am speaking aloud or whispering, maybe even mouthing voiceless words,
my jaw cracking and my dry tongue clacking against my lips.

I drink my cup, releasing cold and barren breaths. And how sweet,
the taste of nothingness,
turning neon into pastel,
sparkling desert into dew.

I sleep on the thought of recovery but dream of scratching my scabby elbows,
purple blood flooding my broken palms. I dream of a hopeful elder who walks in casts, blood seeping with each step. She cries standing on her bloody feet, being held shoulder to shoulder with a family that is not a family, who can't understand so they tell her to keep walking,
to let the pain hold her captive for just this moment, like letting a dog sniff your crotch so he'll smell the mystery, tilt his head, and walk away.
But she cries and swears to never walk again, to never look into the red eyes of pain, refusing to waltz with the devil.

The voices beneath my window buzz like bees and I count how many car doors slam.
Four slams and it's the Colombian neighbors.
One slam and it's the mystery man across the street.
One slam and a beep-beep, and it's my father.

The morning before this one, a pale doom flickered and chunks of the sky ripped like pages of a thick book.
I hear the sound of metronomes, each tick competing with the previous, saying
now is real, no,
now is real.
The silence after a tick awaits the next, a new reassurance of existence.

I sit alone in the quieting day, asking a bobble head questions,
of fate, fortune,
happiness, surprises.
But the dog nods in a teasing manner, swaying its head on an angle,
giving me opportunity to ask yes or no questions.
We'd choose to have things our way,
the yes to our hopeful question,
the no to our fearful one.
Yet, the sincerity is pounded and worn.

The world needs to explode,
to rumble with storm and to vibrate with sperm,
to erupt, tearing down warm homes with closed doors, ripping trees of their leaves and throwing them into still waters like debris.

There's now a circle of sunlight on the lake, a puddle of ducks drinking on the gold, a delightfully sweet cup of the end of day, shivering and tingling after the boil, alive and renewed as if the first day of creation was having its first sunset, birds applauding with a flapping of wings.
The water moves as if it's gulping itself, so intoxicated and lush, making love unto itself.