I sit on the pier of fear, and speak its truth,
folding into its cascading closets;
flour lust and felled by
the skirting hand of impatient apron.
My truth whispers back; fragmented fragrance
of honeycombed quarries and exposed belly,
cut open by a baby turtle’s parting path
through the unfamiliar granularity of sand.
I sit on the pier of anger, and speak its truth.
A vagrant vacillating between lava and ice;
fire spits its evergreen stones at pavlova cakes.
My truth changes seasons. It mills turquoise;
melting magnolia memory
with the burnt brandy of maple,
surrendering epidermic sheath
to blossoming monsoon.
I sit on the pier of loneliness, and speak its truth.
Double headed sirens cast lead feathers,
obscuring silence with the vacuity of noise.
Queens win hearts in games of solitaire.
My truth pries canned skies open.
Mandarin ripened and peeled;
cheeks stained pomegranate until redamancy
measures love by the ladle.
I sit on the pier of failure, and speak its truth.
Caterpillars curl fists around capillaries;
spurned branches howl with stumped breath.
My truth grows among broken bark.
It nests in the moiety of twigged fingers;
weaving wisdom like a hummingbird
that never collects from the same flower twice.
I sit on the pier of unworthiness, and speak its truth.
A boy is lost to the shrinking shadows of
Cheshire pills and polished tables.
My truth turns the porch light on.
A boy is found in defiant mush; pink-red brush
splays canvas onto dreamy trains
that puff their clouded sails only
to the willowy winds of adventure.
I sit on the pier and speak my truth.
I birth a boy;
a Samurai destined to only ever fall
over his own sword.
© Farah Beaini, 2016