allow me anoint this poem first with a prayer, & find a thousand 

and three ways to paint each line with the colour of my blood. 

perhaps this time, each word can carry the weight of grief 

& a bird will nest here, with an ode to hope, carefully resting on its 

beak.    once, i saw a boy fight for his teddy bear.  

in grunts only these eyes could understand, i watched him

clamour for the same shield on his mouth, on the treasure he held. 

who knew a hive of questions was a metaphor for that day? 

call it a miracle, i'm still here finding the key for this song. 

or how do you explain that not all dark clouds are pregnant with 

rain? what stories do you knit to make sense of this miscarriage? 

that windows are doors that just haven't found their keys. 

in this poem, every question is an autopsy for the pain i never named. 

walk through this body and count the cadavers i house. 

today, my eyes are a siren.   there's another boy waiting to be a mirror

for this image. 

me, a well at the verge of dying, 

waiting for a miracle, waiting for rain.