Tag Archives: childhood

Innocente

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The rich students in their infantries

crawling, wading in between trees.

Half of the crowd is digesting light bulbs

and the other half is downing helium,

coughing up lights and stray flashes

and hiccuping at a high G above G flat.

I’m currently at the edge of the forest

with my lover

touching the string of light bulbs

that hangs through the leaves

and unscrewing the sockets

feeling the sting and the burn that breathes.

I realize that

I’m not even a child!

I am the product of a small embryo

that was formerly a fistful of green wadded bills:

what else could i possibly be?

in this forest full of strings and lights and crowds

we found the unexpected windfall

of littered cash on the forest reserve street the next morning.

The rich students line up by the roadside, and

lights bleed from they’re tentatively strewn hands

to catch it.

x x x

in another place:

a lone girl on the hillside starts feeling her eyes

(I just want to soothe her like a mother with a quivering whisper

and shaking hands that reach out to hold

this beautiful pale fragility)

Do not squirm, I say,

the money was left by the roadside

(she knows, and she feels her eyes once more,

checking to see if she can still see)

She knows the greenbacks have been run over by horses

and that might mean a starting over…

well,

it’s just that-

the hill covering her house

is only a flat shape of an unreal childhood

she was soon to forget.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry