By: Katie Johantges
I have habitually mistaken a shard
of a crescent moon for a
trickling from one anonymous universe
into the ether.
I have seen the sun hovering
just above the mountains,
timid, and wondered if it was falling or rising.
If I sit, move, breathe, settle, sing,
would anything besides forlorn spasms
occur between my lungs?
Is there any way to spiral me into the future
where there is a you not afraid
of my musings and flaws;
my confusions and windshield wiper thoughts?
Wearing skirts that hum around my legs
and finding Tuscany and Venice and Milan
in between stifling expectations
with your fingernails etching love letters
into my palm:
my mind becomes an ancient asylum
for potential bliss,
walls crumbling with every pace taken,