A juxtaposition. Anger, depression, and the Wizard of Oz |
Undeniably So It was a small man, who said, “She wants to be dead for attention purposes only.” He doesn’t bleed the color of ruby and his ovaries are misplaced. Bless him while striking his mother blue. Slap her hard like a new calf born here, in Limestone, where nevertheless there are birthdays when Christmas is past, and Winter’s thumb presses hard its sarcophagus grasp. Where coyotes ooh and ah under the sky as the moon floats around our back door calling me like a spotlight. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” My sister, who knew enough to have two recorders removed for high note, sings (like Glenda) to an answering machine which minutes all I wish not to hear, while a calendar boasts a Valentine heart. “And meet the young lady who fell from a star.” After forty winters, forty thumbs, eighty (times two) doctorates who scarecrow ballbearing birds in black suits, I’ll outgrow red slippers and land somewhere beyond Fall and Spring. Even now, the road becomes dark and nature stops tossing apples, and my sister is three lollipop dancers and three curly girls singing my representations. And I know, as though Summer switches ovaries to oysters and all is yellow, and done. Rising like the sun, I’m destined to plunge where monkeys bud wings and doggies play, tap tap tap poppies poppies –forever– |