museboxing

W H E N   O N C E   T H E R E   W A S   J U S T   T W O

There is mythology planted in my mouth which is like sin.
Keep fires inside yourself.
My mother once said, When you were a baby, I let you swim in a basin of water
until your lungs stopped. Since then, my eyes were open windows,
the year everything fell into them.
The sound of burning is like a country of cicadas hissing endlessly.
Ashes on my open book.
Ashes in mother’s hair. Ashes on my baby brother.
The streets are arid, driven toward fire.