it can be any day—but mostly
mornings
when I can almost taste
the clothes I own & watch the light of day
cast
a shadow
there are no incidentals—I understand your hands
and their
intentions/the carcass of all
your
disappointments in the whistle
between the gap
of your
yellow
teeth
we spoke of guns and laughter—how we'd pull
the trigger with our
big toe/ how you'd knit
a blanket that would wrap
around me
99 times—
our bodies unable to suck at the poison/
wore crowns and bruised instead/
an escape
of
breath
we tasted the fruit too ripe/ a mass
between digits
year after day after wound—a page waits empty—under
our
tongues

Ingrid Calderon-Collins is a Salvadoran poet & refugee residing in Los Angeles. She's published in OCCULUM, Electric Cereal, Dryland, Seafom Mag, Memoirmixtapes, Punch Drunk Press, Moonchild Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, Bad Pony Mag, L'Éphémère Review amongst others etc... Guilty of four full-length poetry books entitled 'Things Outside', 'Wayward' & 'Zenith' & 'Ablution.' She invites you to stalk her on Twitter @BrujaLamatepec and read her rants at notesofadirtyyoungwoman.com