• Jan Avellana

i am a weed

I am a weed woody, gangly, no lipstick, no shine.

But I know how to grow through cement.

I know how to take a sliver of filtered sunlight and a teaspoon of dirt and make a life.

I can’t go deep so I go wide, fingers crawling under city streets, down past Front Street— and around the corner, to the end of the block and back again.

~ j. avellana

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yesterday, i opened up the drawer— where my will-o’-the-wisps sleep letting my fingers feel for the frayed edges of a small gauze parcel, i unbound the wrappings, exposing scraps of soot covered snipp

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grief saunters in, like a rude house guest who forgets her key at 2 am-- tracking in mud, leaving her sandals strewn about, letting the screen door slam behind her. ~ j. avellana

untitled 2

meet me under the soft moon, when the fruitless fingers almost touch the ground-- weary with waiting and sorrow. we can breathe then-- and utter all the unsayable things that words could never say. ~

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