• Seneca Basoalto

Screaming Bluebirds

the death of me goes with you too, where sometimes I can see breath pause

when you think everything else is moving / it’s all in the way you receive

light and indent your buds directly into the earth – leaping as if one of us

were to fall asleep inside sunbeams to the tune of screaming bluebirds giving

birth one last taste of honey whose magic you stole from the slowest flower

in the garden, witnessing her wings when they slid shut after cough syrup

swarmed the constant dissociation ruining my youth, wet with August and

cold hands / cold mouth, pressing apologies into apples.

Recent Posts

See All

Honey Cornbread

Who waits longer for their lover to show — the living or the dead? The static of a dream, our song on repeat / my pulse alone could carry the both of us. It's untrue to say I live without you, I never

The Cracking Teapot

my perennial fumes unfurled from the sheets and sniffed a bowl of lemon sugar that reminded me of your kitchen | a freckled floor, respirations that remain half–asleep beneath the cracking tea pot. le

The Volcano versus The Sad Man

He undressed the flames that built nests atop his shoulders, father volcano, a misshapen pupil leaking a reflection of tulips positioned against the sunken part of a mattress, across from the window i