Michaëla Charbonneau
Contributor
I'm old, I still think I'm a child of the moon.
I'm not an astronaut, tell me
how I'm supposed to make it to you?
His cold white breath whispers in my ear,
"Soon, soon, soon"
"When I am orange again, run to the valley of songs and look for sounds of silence only."
Children's echoes of laughter will soon be sizzling silence inhaling cancer.
Heather says children and bears write books
I believe her
I talk and talk and talk,
words never gander in the fields of pages.
Fields of baby flowers with baby faces.
Trees with wrinkled limbs and hidden traces.
Girls wear skirts and get their virginal blood sucked out of them.
Older men salivate at the sight of their milky white parchment
Do you ever watch dying icebergs swimming with the morning sun?
I’lI walk nowhere with your book's soul ripped in half.
I'll never let you go
even with tears melting from your gaze.
I'm obsessed with emptying you of your lovely stars
They shimmer in the cosmos for you.
I feel their glimmers soft on my skin, I don't let the rain flush them off
You must know that
Our heartbeats are grown from the roots of willow trees
Have you ever seen a cat playing the violin on the roof.
In case you do, look at their whiskered smiles leaking wet dreams.
I remember when bunnies used to read us books in forests,
Owls silently listened embarrassed to be seen.
I have fairy wings to fly wherever I want.
I smoke outside my window underwear sleeping on my skin.
I don't care if I catch mister moon gawking at me.
I'd like to see my mother and I intertwined in the womb again.
I regret taking that for granted.
