by Tehya Sky

Wrapped in a day that tastes
like roasted cigarettes and molten rose,
excruciating rose,

dusty sunrise
where cowboys abandon their belts for kiss,
lay supine, helpless in the sand.

In a world where womb rhymes with tomb,
where dog spelled backwards is god and mom is
always mom, I watch as my wit forgives
the excruciating cosmogony,
bends towards the sun,

and the rest of me is rose, molten rose.