By: Jasmine Nihmey-Vasdi

opened birdcages, on
empty balconies, where
we sit inside.

his face is overflowing with years,
and
sunflower sprouts.

he peels me a grapefruit
in bed
sweet meat flossing our teeth

the practice, that moves my legs
to churn,
to the right,

tight enough,
so I cannot read the onion script,
behind those eyes

I ask again for that story of the desert

A cocked plastic gun,
black fingerprints in the sand,
from those who had escaped.

He lets out all the smoke
it pulls at that wallpaper,
Of sad daisies.

He continues

Those fingerprints,
they let the clouds fall on those,
who only cried for salt.