Growing up in vintage walls

i was born of clay and mud
with peppermint segments inside my mouths.
My body was a pillar of rust—
ballistic Squamish music growing
like a pepper spray or a prayer.
Mouth of losses. Mouth of deformations.

And mother held me like a paper- boat
still floating inside her spring memory,
defying my half- bled fingers already/
i was born in reds and black,
the ability to sense lies with half-lit eyes
i was born in a warm moon,
it composed me anyway

in forms of lullaby and music
i grew with crooked hopes—
my years of growing up symbolised to balloons
seen in the air,
gone in the air..
still, somewhere, growing and surviving.
Lost, maybe.

so, i had kissed the backbones
of rooms never fading,
rooms always black,
it happened like a circus playing inside my mind,
with mute music often-
Loss of memory is surely a poultice, sometimes.

©MVS

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