they tell me stories

they tell me stories of the stars shining through the fog on the horizon,

over where moss grows through the heat-blistered cracks in the bricks

as if it’s patching up our wilting world.

they tell me stories of what it’s like to feel unbruised, unbroken, to

breathe in the smoky autumn without choking on the dark grey air.

we grew up in the colour of soot and ashes and lolly wrappers and

cigarette packs piled up around bins- we used to play dot-to-dot

with the constellations in the national geographic magazines we read.

they never formed the picture we wanted them to.

“when we move- it’ll all be better-" but my brother still has smoke

in his lungs and eyes and heart and the plastic in the ground is buried

deeper than my ancestors who grew their livelihoods on those lands.

there are child protesters on the news. they want a world to live in.

i switch channels, feel sick to my stomach, and the tv keeps blaring,

the forecast says the fires are up again, drought in both my countries

because you can’t run away from the sun. i don’t know why we tried.

when i die, i think i’d like to become a star.

they tell me stories of seeing the world in her complete, perfect form

because i never will.