Moet Kurakata

breathe

inhale the journey of a ghostly summer:
               the flooding loneliness,
                             the coiling confusion,
                                           the leashed hunger

                                                            pierce your eyes into the blue pupils of the
                                                            Genius that chained your freedom

                                           and exhale as springtime:

                             to paint like the color wheel,

               to be the missing puzzle piece,

to  stand strong as a trunk,

to bloom as moonlight.


415

One day, I’ll be back 
                to cloud gaze at Dolores Park
                to once again leave an impression deep into the wet soft grass
 
                of my back        after hours of being cradled by the smell
                                           of bacon wrapped hot dogs and cigarette butts.


The soles of my feet will once again        dance along the asphalt
                that’s been     cracked from the earthquakes but
replenished                   with chalk art.


I’ll squint through the thick fog
                that sinks dead into the middle of the street
to be greeted by the evergreen trees in Golden Gate Park and
                bold green signs of familiar street names.

I fly through the purple sunset clouds
to the heartwarming sound of my mother’s violin scales.

I am home now.


My Seaside Friends

swollen,
blistered feet.
the seaside breeze pierces
my back with a brisk slap.

swim through the crowd
and fish for the prettiest dress.
You’ll find him with her

I elbow through nets of
smiles and laughter.
the sincerity inside me
now drowned in crashing waves.

find the North Star
and dance with him all night.
You can catch the last train home


Moet Kurakata is a freshman at Boston University studying painting at the College of Fine Arts, and was born and raised in San Francisco, California.