Poem by Zitlalli Macias / In The Ords

I have nothing to barter–
A well with no water. 

Only my empty hands, 
dripping with crimson, 
grasping at roses that fade to dust 
at my touch with no love to help them grow.

Only the stubborn stone
I’m inching up the hill.
I’d blister my feet to reach 
the peak where you stand– 
blinded by your sunlit face. 

Before the stone rolls down for the last time,
I close my eyes and leap through time to watch 
frames of refracted light and rose colored lenses, 
preserving your bitter sweetness. 

I’ll turn around and let the stone go– 
I’ll hold my own scarred hand 
through the warmth of June.

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