the journey.

Momma told me to go get fixed, child. stay happy.
except happiness was not the cure.
So i went to see the shrink he said it
would help if i wrote.

It wasn't the cure, but I
plunged hands into my mouth and removed wads of
paper and tissue, old cardboard, magazines no one
wants to read anymore,
and still the words wouldn't come.
what came instead was mind-vomit florescent
green neon blue and daisies
in pink with frills.
think happy child, they had said.

i want to read she said
the cure, holding onto Pamuk, Ondaatje in hand
and Eliot leading the way across
vacant lots with newspaper scraps i am
an old lady. My soul is stretched tight
across the skies. Nut in blue, silver
stars i am afraid of the night it
reminds me of Him.