This kind of loneliness makes me feel just right
like someone remembered to light the candles, like someone
was able to convince me one day I’d see a luna moth up close,
maybe even realize my own dream of becoming bioluminescent.
This Tuesday I saw a child eating pennies and I thought
what a way to get some luck inside you—
I had been carrying avocado pits around in my purse.
Some ancient charm for fertility, for love
and since I aim to be childless, well, I was hoping the love would
grow green as overripe mush, that I could spoon it out
and slather it all over something burnt
and it would be made soft, that I would be made palatable
—just enough to go down clean. Downtown, my purse gets stolen
but the kind thief leaves me my passport and my cigarettes, so really,
I could still go anywhere and die at the same time, waiting for planes.
These days I am shrugging through absurdity. I am sitting at the piano and banging
out notes that sound like a very angry whale. But it’s okay, you know,
an old man told me the secret to seeing in the dark is just to
find a good pair of sunglasses and wear them at night.
I am putting on my fishnets to go on another walk, again I am
unashamed of the odd shape of my days:
crying myself awake
to water my roots, deflowered
every time I remember there is no ley line named Grief,
that I do not have to put my witch hands to that dirt;
I do not have to charge it back up.
Pain can be dormant and it can still be real.
Time feels gray, yes, but I am turning corners, noticing noticing
that purple-coated woman buying maple syrup
from a farmer with a beautiful bushy eyebrow,
the sound of a saxophonist meandering down the way crooning beauty so golden
I sit on the sidewalk for a long while remembering that feeling of awe, yes,
I do fall in love with every fantastic nose I ever see. Hopeless, you know?
I think it must be impossible to know how many petals make a sunflower glow that bright
and I pray that one day I can stop picking myself apart
under the guise of getting any answers.