©Falling onto the Highway of Life
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved
I woke up this morning
to the sound of someone’s car tires
on the overheated road;
it made me think of Indian fry bread
and how it sounds
being dropped in the hot oil.
In the desert, there’s a cowgirl
who wakes up each morning
with a funny taste in her head;
yes, something tastes different—
maybe it’s her tongue—
suddenly, she’s not so young.
There is a dancing maiden
who loves a masochist,
but the fire in her dance
comes from a bird singing
in the folds of low clouds;
she sticks the bird in her lover’s ear.
The shape of your eyes
is like a lasso around my heart;
your dance echoes of
a covey at dawn and romantic
road trips; our hair intertwined;
no space for breath between us.
There’s an aged couple
watching dried butterflies rise
over a landscape of stranded ships;
neither sleeps unless together
because the boy and girl they were
are no longer waiting.
I love the way you call me Baby;
and you love the way
I say “good morning”;
we’ve said it before,
“open the door, get on your
bike, and take me the way I am”.
No comments:
Post a Comment