I’ll tug at her apron while she reads books,
and whistle off tune while she bakes bread,
and I’ll climb in clogs on bare wood stairs…up
and down, and up and down until she looks at me.
Then, with permission, I’ll sit at her feet and
tell her that I see visions and hear voices…and
she will tell me I am dying soon…not today…not
tomorrow, for I’ll have days to assign the giving,
and to choose right order of the songs on lists
I’ll paste on doors and where people hang their coats.
She has pockets in her apron, and from them
she fills my hands with question marks and
exclamations…and ending marks of periods
she’s gathered from my life when I, so very
careless…thoughtless…dropped them from
my notice as trifling to its needing.
And I…downcast with regret…leaving her…
shall wish I had not asked.
she warned me
I’d get bellyache
from tart green apples
that cracked open to my teeth
and made me so mouth happy
I dripped juice…
and, later then
her smirk and narrow eyes
at me doubled over
groaning on a couch
in the living room
how could she…not,
and I fault her…not,
for I, too, think harm joy–
know the gentle sense of it… There! I landed on her space
and sent her back to Go!
Aha…I won. She lost!
or pious contemplation of… There but for the grace of God go I.
or…She had it coming–stupid ass.
or the killer one…I’d never say, She’s such a sweet thing.
far away from me, a lot like Don’t think bluebirds.
I’ll not disown it…never could,
this bite of human nature
that still aches inside of me
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