Blue notes ready
get the fumes ready
we’re going to spread this
wild.
City streets rain down
pistol shots
whiskey shots
wake me up, I’m just a
child.
Sell me back to classical keys
the ones that leave
fire in oxygen.
Your spirit still sits
in your acoustic strings.
Baby, I could see a future of missing
your blue river running
wildly over
everything.
Don’t tempt the flames
they’re easier than Spring.
We’re going to spread this wilder
than fire.
Swarming in with poisoned tips tucked
under innocence,
Nature’s vengeance dancing from
flower to flower,
no matter the color,
or the size,
or shape.
They are the thieves of each unique
fragrance,
and I wonder,
Do they watch for the tulip to open toward the warmth of the sun?
Do they wait for a rose to display her heart proudly?
Do they time each moment precisely
for attack?
The light of the sun is unconditional;
food for the flowers,
heat for the thieves,
and on those magical days,
when I am the Bells of Ireland,
exposed,
hungry for the warmth of my Sun,
they swarm in and attack!
Some children have spiders in their
brains, pressing buttons at bedtime,
stopping nightmares,
praising mothers.
Other children have tapeworms.
Cynical parasites eating
juvenile appetites and vertebrae.
These children,
my children, come from
fertile plums and pears.
Summer fruit preparing
for decomposition at summer’s end.
As time goes, so skin shrivels,
hardens,
plump curdles into plush and seeds
become fossils.
A fossil will not suck nutrients from dirt,
as it should,
as parasites do,
from Summer children.
These children prepare for
ripening. Drunk swans arrive in spring
suits,
mild pink bakery sleeps
through exchange
while a Summer child
tosses rotting
petals.
These children sit, arthritic,
decomposing. Smiling at
baby ripe fruit family.
Seeds,
fruits with tapeworm scorn
creating fossils for family to mourn.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 