Our dreams took place on the lower
lawn
between the sycamore and the giant
pink dogwood.
A woodwind quintet seated
on black ebony chairs
under the peach trees.
Peonies’ petals already fallen
with the heaviness of ants and dew.
Sisters’ fantasies painted by Degas.
Neither of us experienced
that wedding we discussed, nor any
large celebration together in that
elegance.
Our early childhood taught
us to expect money,
our early adulthood said none.
I wanted to write about our anger,
because at least it was alive
but I felt that anger fly off out of
the window into the moonlit
sky last night. Being angry serves no purpose now.
Rich feel of flowing fabrics in a
suddenly opened window.
my anger, definitely female,
made an amorphous shape
and left my room
I watched it go, and then lay back
again.
I’m not sure what’s left;
a flood of fun memories?
behind the scene smirks about cute
boys?
a few rounds of Jimmy Mac?
or a knock knock joke of no apparent
reason?
Travel on my sister,
let go of this earthly harness
rise to a new level
surrounded by music that profoundly
calls you near.
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