Gabriel Ramirez | ode to the flower-crown filter on snapchat
at sunrise, i serve myself starlight and stretch
on my mother’s terrace. uncoiling
in the lavender of six-a.m. skies. i say
i am not what was done to me and gold
begins budding at my roots, and blossoms
into radiant grills. my mouth, now, a step
on a staircase toward a heaven where
a group of black boys is called a garden.
i say i am worthy of love and begin
levitating through new york city,
scanning concrete, for what grew from the seeds
angels left behind in the wake of the new-new
testament. i say i don’t want to kill myself and
a casket fills with what won’t let me live.
i tilt my head where the light lands best.
it’s noon and i’m full of tomorrow and
there isn’t a devil to shame or even a god
to question. all that matters is that i am here.
growing. not waiting for unanswered prayers,
instead, waiting to be part of a garden: again.