I am tired of words dressed up in suits.
I am tired of being symboled into stick figure and empty coffin.
As if a person needed something to represent.
Sometimes a heartbeat, is just a heartbeat.
Let my hands be just my hands.
(I know, I used only one of the wordle words. Oh well.)
I fish stars
from the black holes in between my teeth,
build a seaglass castle
from pieces still sharp.
I will be the one
who sculpts my own hands,
break pinata of a mask
and gorge myself sick.
Autistics move like flocks of dragonflies,
like the spray at the edge of a waterfall,
like rain bouncing off a roof.
A crystalline lullaby, God in a bucket,
played on the stars piano,
archs through the blackened trees.
Fish write the second and third verses,
in dog’s-tail cursive under the pearl surface.
A boat is shining.
A single leaf of paper is singing from the sky.
The fishes, in bewilderment,
lose sight of all their secrets.
They scatter from the broken doors of their mouths
like wild horses.
Three different girls put their ears to the water,
wake up with their heads full of mud.
Waterlillies are not like seashells;
they do not keep safe the vibrations
of this song.
When I was younger, my favorite dream
was to pick a waterlily. They lay across the swaying lake
like bananas sliced on oatmeal, fitting into each other
like locks, teeth. Trash and ghosts of oil
wrapped around their legs like clingy children.
I thought a green circle
would make a perfect pet. Imagined suspending it from the ceiling,
as if my bedroom was a lake, watching it float
like a UFO. I stared into the greengreengreen
like a crystal ball
and wondered what it would taste like.
This is a response to At The Mouth of Birdsong by Barbara Young. https://redwolfjournal.wordpress.com/2014/05/27/barbara-young/
This planet was shaped
out of memories and clay
by a grandmother’s hands.
The glinting moon
was carved in the sky
by the hands of cherry trees.
We have every shape.
We have no borders.
We are eternal
as the moon.
My Grandmother sings
the Hanukkah prayers.
Her voice is petrified wood
and waterfall, a tenth flame.
Barukh atah Adonai. The song is a slinky
of shadowed rooms and singing,
words glinting off the ceiling
like light off mother-of-pearl.
As we sit down,
she takes my hand.
Note: I have three grandmothers. My Jewish grandmother is probably my favorite person in the world.