Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Turning Cartwheels

Consider
struggling into your mother’s pocketbook.
Invisible doll.
Yeah.
Cooking the witch,
white linen
and Hell bent?
Swim on your voyage
like a salmon,
but leave a light on
to find your way back.
Across the room
the hypnotist works his trance.
I am turning cartwheels.
The twelfth fairy.
A burgundy
religion
of sorts.
Inside,
I am like the wind
blowing and blowing
without direction.
How dark it is becoming.
Soon I will be in your bed
drinking from your cup.
A princess
painted in kisses and anger.
An insomniac listening to the clock
waiting for the unfortunate whole.
You say no weather reports.
No Sofa Blues.
No booze
waiting in neat rows.
We took our colors
and painted with them.
Green for the forest.
Red for the bed.
Each twig snapped
for the mice
under the blanket.
On Saturday,
I will crawl into the cupboard.