Nadia

Of course,
she too,
was homeless.

On a Christmas afternoon when the sun sprayed a warm mist of light into her hair
and blue smoke stood heavy for a moment,
when it then settled among good Christians with blue stained lips,
chewing bitter olives,
light sprinkled tiny freckles on the cheeks of a child.

And the old gypsy woman screamed for cents, laughter,
and salvation.
The strings of her stolen guitar felt no caresses,
confused chords escaped her violence,
her fingers bled.

But a girl sat and smiled and spilled her very own light over the paper,
sketching silhouettes of dreams.
Carelessly caring,
the journal un-writing itself,
and with the letters disappearing the sketches grew.

Every word fell out of her mouth.
Like pieces of stale bread
they crumbled between her lips.
So she took her pen,
forgetting as she spoke,

about a good life.
about a love felt,
a long way from home.