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.
in shades of sweat pant gray and
office tile white
promise rain to my dry, dry Earth.
The ants have been doing their rain dance for days,
twigs like tiny stilts the building blocks to their effigies.
I have been wrapping rainbows around my wrists,
sculpting the scavenging ground into beautiful lakes to
attract the clouds,
tell them there is room enough on this gregarious field
for earth and water.
I wait every night for the sea to spit my husband out,
undigested and handsome.
I like to straddle the dry lake bed,
the navy sea,
and wait for gifts from ether and water.
The winter comes again,
Staying in my corner, you change his plagues.
There are times when people are afraid.
I can not invite him in.
I build a summer house and he is not compatible.
He screams and hail falls upon me,
shrill and sharp.
These legs are long lairs of want,
These eye planes are like stars of tourism,
the ecosystems of aquariums where the fish are crazy.
My integration will kill you.
Like a bad phoenix I’ll rise up
from my ashes,
The afternoon latches and lunches
on my milky breasts.
My chest a shelf that weighty demons sit on.
Outside in the rocky yard Good Health and Old Age fight.
My eyesight is incredibly blue
and the world is incredibly pink,
so my life is biased toward purple.
I am as executable and cuddly as a queen.
The river is dry.
No baby boys float in baskets among the reeds.
My body floats off to sleep,
my mind sinks into self,
diving deeper and deeper to the mulberry core.
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.