Starlight
presses on my neck
calling out
beads of sweat
to gather like
clouds,
pushing my ghosts
against the soft walls of my spirit,
saying “Sleep, sleep,
even for a minute.”
If I asked you
would you tell me
what the sun does to you?
When you’re laying
in a soft place
letting it change you
do you bead up with
sweat? Does the
edge of your forehead
get a little pink from exertion?
And is the pink blush
really from the sun?
Does it soften you
into firm realizations?
Does the elemental strength
call your ghosts to quiet,
and when they do go
quiet, what do you hear?
Whose voice whispers
in the hushed hollow
of your sturdy spirit?
I want to know
what you want.
I want to know
what to whisper.
I want to know
where to put how my
entire inside cavern
sinks deeper towards
earth’s core when I
so much as think of…
The next thing I know
I am a corkscrew
bound for molten iron
and you are strong enough
to pull me out of it
and you are wild enough
to watch me spin,
gold flecks
in your eyes all hinting
you want to come too.