in her dream last night
she looks inside a dusty chamber
with walls echoing
she wants to be her mirror reflection so badly
but her voice just comes back
through that glass and coated silver.
then she hurries through the water
the antichamber and the sand
scurrying out, out, out of
and the rockface.
That image is only a small glimpse.
mother asked: is it like looking at a pinhole of a sweater?”
“of a blanket” I said.
( well, It’s hard to say
when you stare into absolving water and dust.)
Its funny you mention
i was once predestined to marry
a man I had never met.
he told my mother fresh sweet lies
about his past
the sad fate it was to me, her precious little girl. (sweet little good girl)
mother asked “how many lies did he make? a dozen?”
“a thousand” I say.
(well, it’s hard to remember,
they seemed so real).
It’s funny you mention
I had this itch to see you last night
when the white Pickett fences in Iowa take on a bluish sort of hue in the
and the birds and trees stoop down to trees–
I wanted it,
I wanted to see all of you–
when i stopped
and i realized
you were just about
as convincing to me
as the lies i told myself to sleep.
(for how could i be sure when the little holes seemed so precious?
when i loved the thought of you, not you? )
Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry