Under a BushelI don’t want to lie still under
this rock, like a pool of stagnant water where larvae culminate and grow. 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, flowing, something to look at. |
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