by Tehya Sky
Wrapped in a day that tastes
like roasted cigarettes and molten rose,
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.