Just things I think about tonight

I am made of something that (I would like to say is prairie dust, but) is
suburban streets with concrete pavement tattooing feet
that tap, not barefoot, but heeled and stuccoed
like the face of our home (not honey-suckled, but) saturated
with tan paint the color of desert dust.

It's okay because the summer is one-hundred
and four degrees at sunset and burns the skin
like sex at midnight, (which, even if I have no first-hand
experience, sounds like chaos that erupts,
like terror, at dawn).

And I miss my family because they, like him,
are home, in a different way: are Home in the blood-lines,
in the Love that hurts when I eat dinner
alone.

These words are capitals on purpose because of Truth,
of Stories, of Permanence that wraps my wrists
in thirsty grins akin to purpose but instead are sleepy,
are wishing, and Miss:

the mom that holds me when I am tired and runs
her fingers through my hair in the heat
of the desert, in the soft of suburbia.

the dad that kisses my cheek, with an I love you
(and he Means it, with a capital Meaning like Reason,
like Understanding, like the Truth
that forgets where I came from and dreams for where I
go).

My God is something blue like the Iris,
is something black like the night, is purple
like the velvet of the pillow that waits
for my cheek but instead is forgotten alongside the

fists I press into my forehead. My God is God.
It is different because you are confused: what is she writing
about? What does she mean?

I mean that home is halfway across the bay, is at the base
of this large state, is in the red prayer book at my beside,
is the dawn. Is the twilight.