Writing















Life Cycles 


the moon

the smell of melting cement
tales of others
the taste of blood on my gums
entangled hair 
heavy breathing

a bus ride
a shirt drops
a lion’s fur

I sit on the bed,
touching places fingers have traveled in the past

the sheet smells like cement

one bite,
and everything I thought I knew
                                
sinks

the moon
again, the moon.