tell me what we do with our hands and our hearts

we hoard memories like junk files in forgotten cabinets, and mourn for
the time that continues to tick, and the sun glows blood
red in this reminiscence, for how do we sit on cut grass and
stare at the sky with our hands still and our hearts
caught up in our throats—there is something about the way the hummingbird seeps out
the flesh from the flower and the way the mountains inch towards the
sun and the way they don’t burn, and there is something about the way this
something turns into nothing, turns into only fleeting memory; what do we do with
the hands that can only bear seconds before the earth
crumbles between the crevices of our souls and the hummingbird has had its fill, and the mountains
pause in their pursuit for fire the shade of blood, and what do we do with
our hearts when somewhere there is an office full of junk files and every one has
a shard of artillery and vein, bruised and blue and pulsing still the way it knows to,
the way the body continues to sit on cut grass and stare at the sky with wide
eyes in hopes to capture something, something beautiful in the reminiscence and the bleeding
of the sun and of our hands and of the hearts.

Pluto Mehan discovered her love for writing when she was five and only able to coherently organise her thoughts on paper, and her love for poetry much later upon realising there really was no need for this coherence. She writes about love and (un)belonging.

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