By myself I feed an array of burned down candles.
Mama dreamed I would grow tall onstage,
bleed one raw blue sound into the world’s face.
Carve the lyrics on the crossbeams.
A bracelet from the clear case. A satin scarf
blooming out from my face like a gill so I could
float like an tropical actress. Prices broken into
22 hours, 33 hours.
He plays me music to think to. From when he
was younger and stopped burning walls.
I leaf through so many songs left in the air every day:
For a morning smoke before the rail comes
For glasses hurled to the floor at a party
For how I took his hand in the car
For days I don’t speak to anyone.
The flustered craving is for a sureness.
I wish to appear strange and treasured,
depending on the light, key, and shadow.
We all would die for crystal effortless melody.
When I croon I’m a firstclass loser, you’ll think,
she doesn’t know how to hang on
to anything. Not anger. Not such small feelings.
And I want you to look at me and know.
Listen close. Recognize.
MORE WORK BY YAEL VILLAFRANCA