The porch talk is weighed down by crows
& we look at the sun hoping it looks back.
The eggs are scrambled & the dog
catches the scraps. I’m so sick
of going through the motions.
Same breakfast, same porch talk.
I want to make orange juice by milking
stars. Space should be an ocean
& tidal pools should be filled with
oranges & the crows should sing about
clementines. I want my heart to be more
than an echo of the blackness
between orange juice tides. I’m so sick
of floating through the emptiness & feeling
the weight of the words that will never reach the sun.
It’s the opposite of porch talk & I
am the opposite of drowning. These words
are just the sounds the crows have learned to repeat:
I love you. I love you. I love you I love you I
love you I love you I
love you