She clatters as dishes from the cupboard, loud
And boisterous, splintering in happy alarm. Mixed up
In lovely shards that split lonely hearts and slice open
Long dormant memories that emerge from the streetlights.
She is the midwife
Of pain and long hours, empty words that fell out
And stumbled swiftly under foot. She is lithe yet
In her tumbling takes joy in the atmosphere of
Lazy days, forgetting, makeshift ideas she creates as fast
As she dismembers them, peels them
Into raw materials that sting under her cold breath.
Cherished when away, she takes surprise visits seriously.
She both shakes free and brings monotony, yet
I smile as I cry, the window seared in her tears.
Maybe she is like a boat, bringing and
Sending off dreams. Maybe she takes harbor somewhere,
Trading and bargaining. But how does she know?
Which emotion to settle on this head, the oil I need anointing with
First posted on Poet’s Corner on April 14, 2016