I’m starting to believe elasticity is a virtue

Lashing hickey on muddying sky is thunder’s
  vibrating ringtone.    My begrimed hands never 
   content with flash, they want rain.   Is He
    conspirator, is He artist?    Before I was
     boy, man or any of it, I was tiny skull gifted 
      with life.    From the sanctum of mother, winged 
       fist of father.   But now I’m unable to wrap  
        my head around origins.    See how my mother
         won’t wear the shades I’ve brought her.
         They’re too nice for me, she says.    She won’t 
       look at my sky with those, sticking with her bars 
      of space through prisoner’s window.    I yank my hair,
     regrow scalp.    This house I loved, a boy of ten
    sliding across mosaic floor on roller zinc knees, 
   rattling capitals of countries like it was rap.   
  Oh such levity I found in naming lands unknown. 
I’m still pining for garrulous joy, such is the tongue’s
  urgent love for eloquence.    Through time, a body 
   becomes the stranger it needs.    How the mounting 
    nose denies the eyes a view of pouted lips, their seasonal 
     fleshing, their chapping.    In love too, how a thin stretch
      of skin lipping the space between fingers nourishes 
       another hand.    Isn’t it life affirming how things in duress
        demonstrate elasticity?    Take my mouth for instance―   
         valved sickle in joy, grief.    O while belching, at rebirth.  
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