Kari Astillero
We immersed our faces
to a sink of paint, of church bell sound
& crows crackles to every direction.
It is breathing within the agony of sea.
A passage to a labyrinth of endless doors.
Later, we learned to weave
this into a dress, sometimes into a mask.
We were accused sinful for throwing up
roses instead of butterflies,
dancing death over life.
For how we should turn the gaping,
infinite silence screaming at us?
To continue: inescapable division.
We have become the other
where shadows keep their vigil
loud but not enough words to translate.
*
It is rainstorm—
to peel sky’s indigo to yesterday’s lightness,
to blossoming pink of horizon.
(what do they want?)
Breathe us, call us back
to fields of yellows,
dancing dandelions.