THE GRAIN IN THE WOOD THAT THE CABINETS ARE CONSTRUCTED OF

The grain in the wood that the cabinets are constructed of
seems striated like muscle tissue
or rays of light in summer.
In summer I realize my mind must
fry, popping and crispy on sidewalks
yellowed like bright leaves left on the balcony too long
a jaundiced dying reflecting in hot-blooded waves
to get to the meat of the matter of summer.
And have lemonade eyes with pineapple smiles
to understand the sour sweetness of
children sun burnt silly in the sand.
I have never understood how children communicate.
When I was a child I could only relate to adults
yet as an adult I can only relate to children.
As I am alive I feel that I walk among the dead
and when I’m dead I will dance among the living.
However, no matter what I am,
the embrace of my mother is what I long for most
yet with my luck, I’m sure,
that by the time I get there
she will be rebirthed
and will no longer be a ghost.

Durenda lives in TN. She has been published in Identity Theory, Cornell's Rainy Day, and Zygote In My Coffee, among others. She is queer and vegan. She has been praised by Stellasue Lee Ph.D. who is the Editor Emeritus of Rattle and was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize in poetry.