I took away mercy

from the lineup

and left a gap

only for myself.

All the Rorschach dancers

move sideways across the page

and I’m helpless to keep still, as I

shimmy with my demons.

Sequined corn fields serve as the ballroom.

Nothing travels the world, she whispered.

Not birds or ships or whales or butterflies,

though we’re taught to believe otherwise.

Flight only removes us temporarily.

Old women now give birth

and children rule lost islands.

We’re all lost and it’s sort of beautiful.

There’s no sense to be made of the wavy

pattern of the laundry basket yet

I can’t turn away from counting the spaces;

I tried singing

but you didn’t hear me

and as the traitorous curtains part for

the sliver of sun that wants to brand me,

I scramble to hide.

The heron floated above

pussy willows and bellowing frogs,

not concerned about low flutterings

of girls in small buildings

with babies swirling down toilets

bits at a time.

There’s no mistaking the keening sound

of misery despite the miracle of

indoor plumbing.

There’s no chance that a giant and a fairy

could make a happy wood sprite.

Our feet must leave the ground to fly.

Turmoil is found by mixing elements,

like a Maxfield Parrish collage

made of cheese, copper, and gum.

She sat with her breasts poured out over

a hill of meadow with its teacup flowers

and starburst leaves,

wondering how many steps to moss

and how many arms could hold her

across an ever-anxious landscape,

browning and burning.

.

If there were wings in the offing,

such questions would be laughable

but with an angry earth,

she wants to feel held

before the end.