Delicious Sunday,
absent of the jam of people,
of masquerade.
My kite lifts off fevered shoulders,
enters frothy clouds to
mourn buried dreams and fly.
Asleep, on grass waves, I surrender
to stillness,
expecting great ends to
fall upon me.
I have won no roses
by thievery, I am oiled,
scented by the White snake
who coils her spirit as an
act of love.
If I was a child, I would
have expected this,
but not today. Not in
these years.
After the devil walked out,
I set the house on fire.
A cleansing.
I went North to see the See-er.
She agreed with me.
We talked about herbs and tea
and the guns of history.
My dad stepped in as if he was
there all along. I tried not to,
but the Tulips were in full bloom.
The honey bees called me
by a given name.
I am on separation from myself,
and as ghosts came and went,
I left my silhouette behind.
I joined a rainy city for a brick
talk, but we spoke nothing.
The See-er followed me with a snap.
I jumped back to her possibility.
She meant to cut it at the stem
but I got more than usual,
and the Tulips changed color, over and over.
And during the middle of all Of this,
I found what she grew.
Hope.
“There is a dream outside.
I am dark and imagined and
I can’t wake up….”
I have forgotten how I write.
My voice is with the calendar,
in the cemetery,
dusting off a bottle. The sun has moved
in on this town,
drying up oranges,
turning water to dust.
Today, I am a reflection.
A left over.
The wind is locked.
My phone is dead.
People have stopped watching.
I am underground,
away from cancer and traffic.
“…and the dream is inside, too.”
Light is nothing, not even artificial.
The birds are an alarm;
God’s warning.
If someone could crush my hand with
a hammer, I could stop all this.
The world is stretching.
I want my voice back.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 