Dandelions

We pull the night birds up to our shoulders, wrap ourselves tight
In the leaves and blood they wove to stifle our nightmares.
When do we dream, she asks.
Days past swarm her, flickering in the half-light.
They nip our leaves until we sieve them from the night,
Toss the old days into pots where they swim to the roots of the world.
We walk the darkness. We take stories like the rain
Along our bodies, soaking what we're given for clothing,
Sustaining the days we catch and release.

Both of us, sisters and witch's daughters, don't dream.
She looks up as the sun rolls beneath the soles of her feet.
Don't look down, she warns.
I pull her close.
It rolls on.
Rises. We fall, asleep.
Your lives come to drown us.

Dandelions flood the bottom of the ditch, pouring from the suburbs.
Roads pulse with cars, fast food, prescriptions discounted, green light, red--
Words cram themselves together like cars
Eager for the turn-in.
Black birds, yellow bills race behind the red emergency curb
Long enough to verify the trash is sterile, then
Fly to another pole that hums with another kind of remnant,
Bits of word in heat and motion, data harmonics
Tuning in the warming breeze while the birds' throats shiver.
Heat waves' shadows ripple in the opening of the door,
Everyone balanced within Rube's device, a great plastic
Laundry basket ready to catch that mouse,
The one with ears like your toddler.
Our fingers wind through the bars.

Fishy, fishy, fishy. Here's your bowl.

This is being shared to both The Sunday Muse's Muse #5 and Poets United's Poetry Pantry #404. Thanks to Carrie for suggesting the gorgeous image above, which in no way deserved the aspersions I may have cast upon it. I'm sure the sisters are quite nice once you get to know them.

Thanks for reading and have a wonderful week!