Bevelyn Esparza

The path you were on

rolled up its tongue

like a faded red carpet

and swallowed itself. 

You opened your mouth

to speak of it and your 

voice fell out as silence,

like a baby bird from its

nest.

You felt hope pass away

inside you, but couldn’t find

the corpse.

Maybe the rumors are true:

how beyond the hope no 

longer there, another will hope

for you, or how a demon 

is just an angel that hasn’t 

been hugged yet.

Though you always knew

grief was a window beneath

your skin and it would shatter

open, the world rushing into you

like an intemperate gust of wind 

blowing your breath away.

You also knew there was 

no loss you could not house.

So you repaired your hands

and reset your eyes and realigned

your feet and reshaped your heart 

back into the shape of a kiss and

carried on.

You, who knew our breaking is 

malleable and bruises have sunrises

and wounds are wet clay, ready to

mold the dream inside hell’s

mind; where the air has not 

been screamed to ash and horizons

are not made of smoke and piece

by piece, you built a causeway

out of your body for the light

to cross.