remember . . .

 how we used to make pies and go to the beach and dream of opening children's art museums
 how we used to worry about what to wear for Halloween and how to incorporate the van
 back before we all woke up . . . and looked around with startled eyes at this mess of a world
 before we built bikes for missions. . .  backseats to buckets. . . to memorials. . . fuck Columbus
 before we flew disposable flags for freedom. . . bedsheets for dreamers . . .

 before we all thought about the police killing our uncles. . . on the streets. . . for being deaf
 all i ever wanted to do was move to the country and look at trees and not these wars and deaths
 shake the grit outta my shoes and ride along dirt roads and playground gardens with ducks
 decide which type of crumble to feed the hens. . . hold acorns and walnuts in my hands and hers
stare with wonder at waves in greens and greys and towering clouds and spray before i ever used the word Bourgie. . .


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