By: Allen Serrano

If Our Sky Was Our Skin

If our sky was our skin,
what color would it be?

Pigment dark enough to blaspheme a
holy night or fair enough to irradiate
the clouds as if heaven was here.

Air thick enough to bud tendrils
of tornadoes or tender enough to
release a fugitive silver lining.

Scars deep enough to be holes
dented in the ozone or prized
enough to be an avenue of mountains.

Tempest warm enough to be treated as a
resentful hide or civil enough to be seen
as a wound from a day that wronged them.

If our sky was our skin,
what color would it bleed?

###

When We Return Back Home, We Are All The Same

The white-collar worker taps away on his device.
He treads on static rug and jokes around the water cooler.
Menial tasks and steady paychecks under halogen lighting.
Comfortable, monotonous money-making.
Elevator down four floors, he gets his
parking ticket, and leaves his company.
A rush hour routine, he smiles in his rearview mirror.
When we return back home, we are all the same.

The blue-collar worker taps away with his device.
He treads on solid steel and rests in the break room at noon.
Manual tasks and sterling labor under beating heat.
Sparks-flying, tiresome muscle-building.
Sidewalk stroll four paces, he gets his
parking ticket, and leaves his company.
A dog day lifestyle, he smiles in his pickup’s mirror.
When we return back home, we are all the same.

The unemployed worker taps away, left to his own devices.
He treads on every terrain conceivable and is always restless.
Masterful tasks and vagabond dreams under rain or shine.
Capricious, Sinclair-esque acclimation.
Living on four meals a week, he has his
earthly tent destroyed, and leaves his company.
A sad miracle, he smiles in bliss as he dies in the urban cold.
When we return back home, we are all the same.

###

Hibakusha

Survivor is a misnomer. Victim is an understatement.
Humanity has failed them and all can understand and
should allow hatred and not healing to still burn alive
in their hearts as their backs once faced.
Blossoms by the site continue to carry the ill will of
hundreds and hundreds of nameless, grisly reminders.
Those days of orange infamy remain like foreign
oxygen from such a malignant fallout.
Silhouettes of the fallen stretched out like wide streaks.
Crime scenes chalked in city ground made hallowed by
napalm poured out like a fountain of familicide, and
hollowed out by the front-page facade.
As dead innocence piled from nuclear wreckage, hands
dug out last minutes of life, hands eased the sick to
paradise, hands fed the orphaned, human hands that were
used to take life away, gave life back.