All Tucked In
It’s the pristine pair of shoes smug with their sole mates
you bought to match the dress still sporting tags.
You rarely find occasion to go out anymore;
you spend a good deal of your time dressed up in rags.
It’s the hope to find your Prince that quickly dwindles
with this rather paltrily packed array.
You’ve barely made it out of bed, not to mention out the door;
you wonder whether things will ever change.
Until the sun beams in your window at the necessary slant
required to greet the daunting task at hand,
you can hobble round your workroom, clicking those heels on your floor,
but you’ll not get very far poking holes in quicksand.
All Tucked In
The dam built to contain your goop serves as shelter and cage.
Escaping with aid from your delicate body, an impossible ask.
Head pressed to thorax with nowhere to go,
antennae, proboscis, and legs tangle themselves;
you grow dizzy in your crowded encasement, enveloped by virginal wings.
What does it mean to fly?
The outside world is as fresh and full as every spring before.
It is dark, itchy, and lonely here, your reserves exhausted at last.
Awed onlookers are privy to specks of fire and night;
your own eyes blind to the threshold of your unfolding;
they grow dizzy with chromatic inspiration, enveloped by virginal wings.
You are a living invitation to try.
The hustling, bustling crowd has not disturbed your quiet way
poring over Harry Potter in the corner.
Children are crying for their caregivers, your book is begging to be picked up again.
I scan the room for the curve of your profile;
I comb through tangles for the straightness of the part I’ve often inhaled;
and, as if some mystic courier has dropped my message,
two hazel lasers zip suddenly to lock their beams with mine.
The revolution of our story pulls us in.
Handy is the razor that glides across dusty cardboard
holding court in the K̶i̶t̶c̶h̶e̶n̶. B̶e̶d̶r̶o̶o̶m̶. Basement.
Moth-nibbled tweed and crumbling lace extend their greetings,
whose subjects grandly genuflect and kiss their many rings.
Here come the good days, the old ways, back in fashion,
busted leather and salvaged toile sewn anew into derivative displays.
Flailing monarchs beat their fragile wings, moving
with and within us, until the dust settles, until they are gone.
When You're Awake
Come and be fed in your infinite hunger,
cast your worries around like wedding rice,
calm yourself in earnest, sister woman,
and content yourself with finite days on this exquisite orb,
kissed by Mother Earth.
Sister, sing the symphony of vastness from your belly,
shake the abundant madness from your curls,
steady yourself on the slopes of pure existence,
and shoot into the stratosphere on golden hooves,
kissed by Mother Earth herself.
Thank you for joining me. I am so glad you’re here!