I am from a war that started before I was born and continues, the war which changes names and faces but the dead all look the same
I am from the press of my granddad, an orphan wanted by no one and worth a rock in a pocket
I am home in my skin—alive and looking out of eyes that have yet to experience the suffering of those persecuted by the “normal”
I am of the desert floor, moisture on the surface of each morning.
And I am born of the earth, the sweet smell of heavy growth, eyes filled with brown, feet digging under the sticky stems
And from the honeyed opiate with flavor of apple on my tongue blunting all of it-the fantastic clouds or unreality
I paint the sky with my hands and wish for the end to be gentle