The body I was in was called golden
with edges like driftwood,
smelling of caramel corn and sun,
looking like a shaggy butterfly
with a shaky wing.
I’ve stayed ragged
but processed and contained
like a koosh ball in a bubble gum machine.
My doctor had an old bag
and long beard. He was an impressionist
with a free-form modern sensibility
which made me feel like floating
in a murky pond
afraid of the depths, craving flight.
I sputter when I leave the hills, bits of
color left behind like a jet’s echo.
The shape of history
is a pile of love robed in stark beauty,
long grasses, and a touch of grief.
We become bakers or birds.