Tell me about the prayer
your mom taught you when you were six.
The one that was spoken after
plates violently kissed walls,
believing that sacrifice meant crashing—
her lips all swollen from landing on tile floors.
How love came to be a broken speaker
after dancing to a thirty-year-old song
that once made her feel endlessly wanting
to kiss the mouth of a man who once knew
how to say sorry through his eyes
without speaking.
Now he had forgotten
how to spell the word Forgiveness
through the gaps between his teeth
and it leaves bite marks while walking out
of the door, slamming himself shut
like a freezer too cold
that even her sunlight apologizes for existing.

Tell me about the time it was easy for you
to say I love…
and completing the sentence without question.
How your prayer began with Dear God
and how it ended with your mom’s broken lips
upon your forehead—the moonlight lightning up
dark craters on her face and you,
still calling her beautiful,
believing you were just the same.
Because you still are
in endless ways too many,
you still are.

Kharla M. Brillo , A Poem About Remembering (via pouvoires)