The morning sunlight on my paper, the shadow
of my hair;_____the me that is not,
I go elsewhere. ______I watch
branches sway above my head;
leaves talking and slipping
into grass, mate
as I rest in the ordering of elements again;
the rhythm to it.
I used to water
my sandbox around the
big tree in our backyard.
My mother's big green watering
can, half as tall as me and
banging against my knee. I would
start at the furthest corner
from the house and end there,
away from the house. Lining
mud-pies around my box
earth ran down my legs, stuck
under my fingernails,
lived through the panic of a drying crack
as I waited for rain to carry me through
the taking up of air.
I watch branches sway above my head,
no longer body, just movement
further away and closer
to the moment
my innocence laughed at me like new green leaves
falling through a fire escape.
The sound of being heard
was let go of
like a Barrel of Monkeys
swinging out too far.
Blood like red plastic
monkeys went everywhere
crying to dream again.
What is remembered becomes reality
and I lie as
water seeps through
as it did in little-girlhood;
making mudpies, I will
a pile of shit to be pretty
and smell like strawberries again.
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