Monday, April 7, 2008


Maybe in this version you are a bird, and I have become an old woman. Maybe you ate a falling star. It’s hard to love someone in a castle – they always feel distant. I will open a flower shop and learn to speak German, take to wearing ruffled dresses and straw hats. You'd like to pin me down, but you could tell my feet weren't touching the ground. I called your name over and over, but you couldn't hear me above the din of the bombers. It was like movies of wartime Japan. I looked up and there were planes bulging with smoke.
The blue sky kept getting darker –
sometimes, I thought,
with your shadow.
In the end, I have a dog in my arms and a scarecrow for a friend, but I never make it to Kansas. The field is wet and stormy, I kiss three men goodnight for their magic. The door to your childhood is opening for me. It allows me passage into a brick wall, my fists full of shiny black feathers, the shell of an egg, the howl of cold wind against a mountain. Don't worry, your heart is in good hands. Let me keep it a little longer; its blue glow illuminates everything.

by Jeannine Hall Gailey
Port Townsend, Washington
first published in Cranky, Spring 2007

1 comment:

Anonymous said...