poem: on hold

warmed sugar on a 70s stove
—tonight I am 21, shut down from bankruptcy
separated from everyone I've ever loved
my eyebrows light, orange bleached twigs
and working every day for the rest of my life

I just hope that by the new year
I will feel like warm sugar on the stove
my hair will be ten inches longer, then
I will have stepped into independence
keep going, adelante
without the warmth, once again
day after day after day
keep the suns memory and heaves of artificial light
at your shoulder
and like Sisyphus
push the boulder up the hill
the hill — affected by the movement
the crashing, monumental shifts of tectonic plates
the rifts of the earth
which have, for you, opened a sinkhole deeper than an oil well
your reflection, light waves bouncing onto the oil and a deep watered cove
with a giant gift, wrapped in yellow
addressed to you

keep going without that warmth
and you’ll see the sun once again
peering to you from your sunken depths
behind heavy clouds, she will say
“thank you for your patience”



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