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when it goes missing.
by Meghan Helmichon again, off again.
it's just a square case of seven parts
and i fill it with small packages,
each one wrapped in white paper and cracked
down the center. scored and precious.
and then i swallow or drop behind dressers.
sometimes a fall that pushes back up
but often i just fall asleep in rows,
seven sections of myself, lined up
and disappearing. like the blinking green tea
brown behind eyelids. on and on and off off,
a weird signal of movement that directs me,
with whistles and hand motions, which way is up.
it goes away sometimes, and with it the downward
push into wheeling reeling balance.
the green of paying for simple guidance,
the paying for the ease of shutting up tight. 11/06/2007 Author's Note: afternoon scribbles.
Posted on 11/06/2007
Copyright © 2024 Meghan Helmich
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Gira Bryant on 11/06/07 at 09:49 PM I kept trying to figure out in prose terms what you were saying. Then I decided I didn't really care. The best works of art are the ones that take us into dreams we didn't know we could have and this is one of those. The lack of solid references is dizzying. I like. |
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