That previous December,
a little voice was coyly in-treat-ing:
"Take an angry butcher knife to your hair,
and paint it the color of a strawberry,
some dear, saintly soul will finally notice
you have some fire left within you"
Your eyes flickered brightly on the jet-way
the flash of surprise lighted by stop-lights
the roar of your engine ig-night-ed as you
shifted us back and forth. light and dark.
fast and slow. this way and that. swaying.
I would then become like spearmint-
red, and white twisted so tightly that
the colors blurred and clung to each other--
a spiral of some-days, a certainty of now.
For weeks after, I felt coated internally with
a sticky-sweet giggle, that guarded my
heart from the outside darkness,forever?--
it would, however, begin to creep back in
unravel the spiral and
roll back to my empty front door.