written By
A subject impossible to avoid.
Yet still she tries,
meandering into fantasy
like side streets
in some far away land.
Musing at how nice Crete must be
this time of year.
Fleets of goats running down mountains,
enough feta to sink a ship.
It’s not that she’s afraid.
She’s not.
She’s ready and she knows it.
It’s that birds do not turn back into seeds
and with each slice, crystals build into a sharper point.
This week is the week. It has to be said.
No more excuses.
So she buys her self happiness,
skirts,
perfume,
bracelets,
frivolous like a shrill laugh.
Finally, taking a deep breath, she dives
deep into the sky
wondering
what stars look like
on the other side.
