untitled sestina

When the evening turns to night, that dark
velvet blue attenuating the fire
in the sky, at that moment the screams
stop. The children stop moving but for their ragged
breaths. A soft silence sweetly kisses
my face and dissolves into the air, never

leaving any trace behind, never
lingering long enough. When it's dark,
the flowers lower their heads, kiss
the ground and find respite before the fire
of the sun awakens them again. Ragged
and still tired, they open their mouths and scream.

I can't bear to see the tulips scream
at me, vivid red, blood red, their never-
ending wails. Sometimes I lay a ragged
cloth on them to contain their dark
dreams and muffle their fiery
voices, poisonous and ravenous kisses.

I wait for the night's delicate kisses,
the warm breeze that brushes the screams
away for a little while, puts out the fire
in our quiet little hearts. The wind never
reveals our secrets, hushes the darkest
thoughts hidden away in our ragged

minds. On the ground, the crunching of ragged
fallen leaves (reminders of painful kisses
stolen in the shadows of the tall, dark
trees) builds up to full-fledged screams
before the bats and owls, never
balking, silence the prey. A fire

in the distance blending with the fiery
morning sun rages on, ragged
flames crackling as though it would never
die down, but the night's rainfall kisses
and soothes the scorched earth, the screaming
trees finally calm, breathing again in the dark.

In the thick darkness, fireflies create
their own ragged constellation, kissing the night,
and for a while, it seems the screams will never return.