THE  27Th  EDITIOn

      I.       The sapphire blue

 

rectangle of midnight between my window 

curtain and the wall likes to talk to me 

when I can’t fall asleep it grins because

I envy people who learned the trick 

of counting sheep and never looked back 

or who found geometry entertaining 

me and the closet ghosts, the blue lights a fire 

under its belly and waits for me to roll over

into pockets of time from hours ago

I wanted sleepy tea to knock me out

of this bedroom-turned-to-chase

dust from my window sill instead

of peeking through another curtain

tickling my eyelashes, asking me about

how cubism wants me abstract. 

 

I submerge into blanket fibers 

smooch each vertebrae on my spine

aching for a Dream Goddess to take

each node of stress, stretch it along

a river until like water it runs smooth

the hairs along my arms delicate 

like lashes listening to a cry

I collapse into letting my mind

wander into the hand of the Goddess

and isn’t that fun to have her step

in time with my instrumental music

never quite works anyway 

she jogs along my synapses, smiling

at people from when I grabbed coffee

this morning, cars who passed me

singing along the highway

probably flipped me off too

many interactions link hands

with us and the Goddess 

painting pieces of conversation

into a road to follow for the night

reminds me: it’s supposed to rain

so you better get going, I don’t want

my sugar cube to melt—I do  

 

crave the ability to soften

my sleep deprived self, observing

sapphire blue ripples of people 

rolling together in laughter

seeping into brick buildings

to mock my need to be punctual

and awake I skitter with the squirrels, 

choke down the happiness of having company

imagining the charged and caffeinated 

nerves in my body run blue. Royal maybe 

 

   II.        into gold

 

like when Dad says we were worth more than any hospital bill. Tell us about the time when you stopped counting pennies, when the wishing foundation shook your hand. We’re sandbagging the sapphire with stories—letting it rest on our front porch vacation. I’m talking to Dad about the watercolor sky. Drinking a Spotted Cow, I say it tastes like soy sauce to see his chuckle turn the leaves greener and watch the sun swing dance across his wrinkles. We tap our bare feet on the wood. Happy hour tales created from jazz music and his coaster collection, Dad relaxes into his chair to mimic the clouds: the Red Eye bar and grill, a Thursday night bike ride to the Sawmill, a poolside bar, brats and beer at The Bavarian. I want the fermata to never end and Louis Armstrong tunes curling into the breeze to be endless. I want to focus on this copper beverage and Dad’s hand—

 

    III.       with hints of pink

 

the chapped kind of shade from a day of 

 

1. checking patients at the clinic. 

2. Running out to get groceries—fried chicken and garlic mashed potatoes. 

3. Folding t-shirts and picking out old ones to leave on our dresser, new night shirts. 

4. Picking up dog poop. 

5. Juggling oranges for our entertainment during homework breaks. 

6. Switching off his show in time for us girls turning rosy and running down for The Bachelor. 

7. Reorganizing the pantry for the second time in twelve hours. 

8. Calling family members and pouring a glass of Irish whiskey. 

9. Putting away the dishes that burn my fingers to grab from the billows of steam. 

10. Ongoing tasks plummeting into his hands like he builds blizzards because

Most batteries recharge when the engine is running. I wonder if my spine, hands, veins whisper about batteries too. Dad snatches two dark chocolate Doves on the counter for us and bumps his elbow against mine. I press the thin foil until it lays flat.