Under a Bushel
I don’t want to lie still under
this rock, like a pool
of stagnant water where larvae culminate
I would like to be laughing at the birds
in flight, a minister to their bird-needs.
I would like to take off this thick sweater,
cover my limbs with sand and wait
for the tide.
I don’t want the lost love of the past to stop me
out of fear from plunging into
a faith-induced joy, stop me from painting my skin
with visions that swim full-force in my brain.
I don’t want to be the child chained to the park bench,
hearing voices no one else takes seriously.
I won’t be swung from this dead vine,
hollow as the fear I abhor.
I will be a fountain, running, contained,
self-sufficient, a fountain
that children make wishes in and animals find drink.
I will be acceptable as I am,
to look at.
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