Unfair fields mock my festivities.
Out here my breath turns to flowers.
I am a sprinkle.
I am the whole fluffy cake with buttercream frosting.
The pianist plays among the poppies ,
The flutist in the daffodils.
But the field opens up its maw
at the far end of the horizon,
and everything falls in,
Particolored joy abating in a black abyss.
This clock is orange and extravagant
like a drink I shouldn’t be drinking because it is only noon
and I have a child.
In a clock,
wild excess is forgiven.
The clock throws so many minutes in the trash,
spends forever buying contraband at every border.
My fingers have given their free will for a little love from this clock.
At night I cannot sleep.
At dawn I cannot wake.
My husband puts the frantic tv on
for our daughter.
It is always a little too happy to be of service.
The laundry shifts uneasily on its weight.
The bunny judges me.
and I am dreaming of past school days,
Wispy as smoke and elusive as rights.
The day is fine
like baby hair.
Every hour must be combed and tended.
It is time to rise,
entranced by the past,
entrenched in the present.
A brittle face,
Communicate carefully the
Minute details of the storm inside.
In the hall the elevator doors part,
And my tears gush out,
A salted homage to King.
My surface life is disturbed,
Alabaster marred by freckles and nodules and
My outer life is placid, perceivable, unpersonalized.
But inside this domestic box,
Lay the most anemic dreams,
Breeding hopeful runts.
A blue tunnel rimmed with rainbow spangled stars
Leads to a woman in a black field harvesting high heels.
She is old as winter,
Her hair violet,
Her eyes ultramarine stars flashing.
She is no one’s neighbor,
Born beneath a pile of cast stones.
Somewhere in the looming black wheat
Beneath the onyx ether
Girl children are born in red satin receiving blankets.
A nuclear image of a girl constructed from trees
Blows apart a novel, a life, clairvoyant cinematography.
She sips from a waterfall,
Collects scraps of rain in her hair.
She rebels against rebels from every state of matter that matters
(Doesn’t all matter matter? A speck of glitter can cleave an eye).
With her breath fleeing north and her pheromones slipping south,
Nothing will ever be hot again.