By Rachel Salud
My heart is a wasteland
Of cigarettes smoked to the hilt,
And walls that bear the shadows of rain;
Of tree stumps that never grow,
And seeds that don’t bloom over the concrete earth.
I hide where ants feast over dead roots,
Where broken bottles take the place of stars.
Memories of leaves whine beneath my soles,
And I mistake the wind for the struggle of angels.
My mind wanders the path of airships
Trapped in four walls,
With no destination but the end of laundry wires.