Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Happy

In winter
I send myself
to the end of the week,
to the milkweed morning of mistletoe
where everything is new
as a dream.
There,
kneeling with my grandmother,
I ring the bell
and sing into the basin of silver
all my questions:
Will I marry?
How old will I be when I die?
Will I ever love?
She smiles at my naiveté
whispering
secrets she has never spoken
in my ear.
I will be happy she says.
Happy?
For too long now,
when asked if I could see the stars in the sky,
all I could utter was,
“I see black and mud.”
Happy?
Perhaps she has the wrong girl.
I am the bruised daisy
crawling toward God.
The cracked bread in the corner
crying misshapen tears.
The wingless rabbit cowering each night
by a bowl of soured milk.
I am second thoughts and doubts
and powdered sorrow left on the bathroom floor.
I look into her eyes
and again she says, “you will be happy.”
And for a moment,
I believe her
as if the sun were a bone I could bite into and hold.