Toucan bids me Luck

A stretch of land swinging below me offers up sacrifices of pretty figurines molded in plastic. A black Toucan with red and blue accented feathers stands out among the stiff spread of insects, dolls, and animals. Some blankets are empty, but every roof is outlined, making up the grid – a flat game of Tetra, frozen on level two. The bodies I recall the clearest are those upon which I swoop closest to their surface. That black, painted Toucan and the green grasshopper with the broken tail, cracked at the top. They sunbathe indirectly, not quite to the melting point. It just makes sense: the sun is the source of all life and these lifeless creations are trying their best to know it.

Eventually I’m going to have to come down. I didn’t mean to be swept this far over the mountains, over the royal blue waters blending into soft sandy mutes. I run like any other girl driven to flowers, except when I reach that speed that pulls my blouse behind me, my feet forget the round; I am lifted. This day I float too high and I’m scared more than usual.

The last house leaves me flying over industrial lands. I look back at the brick wall sacrificing these figurines to their gods, a disruption in an image that reminds me of my dilemma.

“They are fossils, and I think this map goes with them. See how the skeletons come to life in these drawings. Where did these come from?” I gently land like a goose to the waters outside a concrete garage. I know these people.

Recalling my adventure, I remember ice cream and men - their skins glistening in heat, tight over strength - the ice cream in pints, fed to my tongue. I watch his smooth, plump lips slightly parted to encourage my own. I was there on an errand, yes, still an accident, but at least I was not lost. These men in their bodies knew what I meant and they gave me what I needed. I needed to breathe harder.

Bananas Bake in a Window

Last night my dream made me ashamed. If I knew to hide my face in my elbow, if I knew from where to turn I could possibly have avoided my guilt. But none can control what they dream, and dream I do…

A banana bakes in the sunlight screaming through the West-side window. The sun dances in its own heat and teases me for joy. She lures me outside into the jaws of a sharp wind and laughs as I shudder. I return to sit behind glass.

From here I watch someone else hear your smile and feel your laugh.

There is a longing to be seen, to be included because I know that all your jokes are inside jokes – a comedy club one cannot choose to enter. For this, a foundation built on mutual friends and countless hours over three years is eclipsed by distance; those friends are gone and those years fade.

We laughed because you were laughing. It is mirrored in all waters, all glasses; every crystal captures the eruption that is your heart into joy. But now your skin tightens and your sense panics because, like always, my gaze drifts: my attention mocks you with my desire on him. They are traps, those eyes grey like thunder, but I do not want to escape, so I grin and melt that I may be carried in the tank of his car.

His seductive smirk, his innocent cheeks: a child born into sin but precious with the innocence that can only be feigned with the knowledge we have taken. How sweet: a soft pout, a rosy glow, a voice I drink like trickling water, just a baby born with a fool’s wisdom.

That music wraps you tightly; it sticks to your shoes like mud in the cracks - songs you let conduct your life. You’d rather live in those songs than open your own eyes. The shades stay drawn and your notes read sadly. You live in twisted joy found in seeping hearts, bitter brown ice, and vain photos, false faces.

Do you love her because you feel safe to hate her? She won’t notice with your touch so gentle, seemingly timid but deliberately so. I dare not call her a fool for in her I am reflected. I stare at me in her but in her eyes I see mine now pierced by a new light in the center that does not reach through hers. I would show her from where it comes and to where it leads but she doesn’t know we are connected and he won’t tell her.

She holds the porcelain doll cold on her skin, smooth on her fingers, delicate on her hands. To the child it is treasure, the love to call one’s own, to carry with you always. But it will fall and it will shatter - hallow and sharp, you will bleed.