wombs of my mountains

wind you know where i am alive and unforgotten time and i walk through the valleys and canyons made by trinity God Spirit and the son of woman wind you know how my throat wails in melody somber prayer joyous praise to you the wind that batters me uprooting my seedlings pulling sacrifices from the wombs of my mountains wind after birth soother cleansing sin away your breeze sister gentle cool draped in the blue of sky anoints the lips of the child with psalms and holy noise if only she could remember to return home

mbrazfield (c) 2022

our picket signs for St. Peter

infinite is the same color gray
stones upturned not a smile they bring
the bulbs of spring red will be
blessed are her feet
they carry a soul to heaven’s gates
wings await to offer flight
descend your faith into our light
on the corners where the orphans fade
a glance will do from eyes of gold
our picket signs with prophecies
adorned
will see the blooming of a brave new world

mbrazfieldm (c) 2022

historian

mbrazfield (c) 2022

i have seen the morning crash the back of the night running away from the future
i have witnessed shopping carts on fire devouring the food of my seeds
i have seen men lie to men as they’re life has lost it’s worth
i have witnessed a spirit come but in the opposite of peace pulling the sun and pushing the moon from me

yours is

yours a cool blue glance that burns cold in the midst of my heart

yours a hot clutch tight around my fevered mind

yours the sound of angry thunder sticking at the door of my vulnerability

yours a distance beyond comprehensibility that weighs on my caving chest like 19 billion suns

yours a bitterness spilled across a bleeding tongue

“depression demon” mbrazfieldm (c) 2022

words hushed

to forget my line
across the street the crowd
opposite my thoughts crowded
in my brick building mind
there are willow trees
lining the dirt paths
that used to be dustless
still the little brick corners
prick up catching my heels
from the corner of my dry right eye
i catch Fante in a grey suit
head bowed writing on a pad
golf pencil a story about a girl
straight ahead the afternoon
pierced in the heart by pigeons
scared into the sky
by wailing fire trucks
and my face dead on
the Mexican artisanal mirror
my lips red my words hushed