If they think of us as eyelashes –
we shall be the eyelash people.
Palm backs break eyelashes, and we fall on lip corners
seen, seen, seen upon the fall;
cusped in a collared vacuum created
on jawlines floating as they gnaw on aerosols.
If we are the eyelash people, shooting star babes,
Our swiftness, microcosmic bodies being wicketed,
being made the carriers of wishes as we’re displaced.
For we are the leaflets of hair and stars and minuscule entities
floating in the chimerical invisibleness of bodies and skies
dissected by them as they hold us from when we fall –
pockets dug on our knees for the whooshing of dreams
one, two, three,
blown away as we impregnate their wishes.
Legends say eyelashes are blown to keep the devil away
so we hold the devil as we fall onto people
fuming red, fuming white if we take the form of a star
and burn, burn, burn until blown away.