Coconut Milk

by Cole Solis Jativa

Tingles! For new beginnings. I

pick fresh flowers and perhaps,

I will prance naked, singing until

my esophagus is hoarse.

Bronze beetle, be kind and

hold my ash as these pearls linger

gracefully over cotton falls.

Guayasamín cradles ceramic

fruit while a sitting duck

hurdles over abusing blades

of iron. The eyes of an owl are

perched erect on butterfly wings

as we commemorate a fallen soldier

among plains of persisting pigments.

A moment of silence

And as the cauldron sizzles of

bittersweet reduction, there is an

ever consuming presence of

honey-love.

My grandma (we call her Coneja)

sips soup in shades doused

in ceramic sunflowers.

An obedient cow is the

honorable vessel of a grimey sponge.

Alas, will the dried flowers in my ocelot’s skull ever fade?