Adriana.K.Maxwell
Dance, round and round the telephone I go, swung and tossed back and forth, "talk to..." "I'm sorry, ma'am, but you need to talk to...." "I just did..." "Well, I am sorry but I can't do anything, call..." I'm worn out, I don't care whose problem it is, I have no interest in justice here, I just want it solved.
Music floats around me, air dancing, I am floating in waves of sound, this gives me life, the pulse of time comforting, dreams and wishes in combinations of 7 notes
Book, slip into covers, feel the ink glide over my skin and head, diving past letters to ideas and pictures, to repeating their voices, to open my heart and offer them a home, in this way, a tree lives forever
Laugh loud, my dear, let yourself double up, wheezing, let it be more than a puff from your nostrils, for the world is crazy and angry now, our joy must be louder.
I thought friends were deep secrets and sleep-over parties, die-for-you, that's what I saw in stories. And I always wanted it. But I've found that friends are the number you can call even if you don't know what to say, they are the ones you go to Walmart with, the ones who call you to carry up a good chair they found by the dumpster, the ones you stop over for a few minutes and then it's midnight.
Fairy, light-landing, softly creeping under pillows, busy worker, sighs a little as she heaves the tooth up, settling the bone on her shoulders.
Candyman, candyman, there was a man at my church whose name I never knew. We all called him the Candyman because he would always offer candy after the service. For my birthday, he carved a horse from sweet-smelling wood because I have always been a horse girl. He actually made me two because he wasn't satisfied with the first one. Now, I realize just how much time he must have spent for a little girl who didn't even know his name.
They don't talk about the unworldliness of enchanted places, this is not a place of "bibidy boo". This is a place where the sun stays still and shadows move. Where you are polite to everyone but never give your name. This is not rainbow soap bubbles, this is frost and ice crystals, silently growing, sparkling but sharp enough to cut. This is a place where you keep your voice low and your eyes wide open.
Thistles grow purple. Before the flower, the buds look like the burdocks I would build with but thistles do not make a good substitute. They are, after all, the spikes that saved Scotland.
Heaven, far away, why do we always think that it is up in the clouds? And why is Hell always underground? Someday, I will see it myself.
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