When it is red, when it sparkles in the cup

We’ve talked about how
pinprick alarm mornings
come bright and scathe.
Sun strokes fever-skin and
we remember our holes.

Then we’ll fill and empty when the day is done and
clink to celebrate survival.

But I want the sun on my retinas,
laughing teeth, pores spilling over.
I will occupy life with tears and skinned knees.

We think in the forgetting we live,
as our conversations slur and swirl.
But it’s in the dread, heart-drumming,
the feeling and the fully-alive.