I am small;
a pink stick
still blossom
smothered in gasoline.
A sunset is coming with trumpets.
I drink terror under the table;
a jungle of Heaven.
I pout when the symphony
plays out,
the cherry violin stampede
chases my breath
away.
I am accused,
though I feel clean.
My hand’s in the cookie jar
with a pistol.
I must be sick.
My head is sneezing,
my insides fevering,
heading south.
I hear my mother pray for a safe way.
Let me pass. Let me raise the
icebergs to the sun and melt
with them.
The great horns blow
into my throat,
deep musical breaths
pump my chest,
but I last it out.
I am a small, crushed blossom
under the foot of guilt
and shame.
Strike a match.
Let me blend with the end of the day.
With my hand on the trigger,
In my own way,
let me pray.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 