Living the Dream

sisters, seize your stories by the throat

and shake them until their teeth rattle

pluck those things you thought to be truths

petal by page until there are no words

left

aligned

sputtering sadly across stiletto-heeled sheets

weep over them.  Let tears

weaken what has been thought

as who you were

let the black wash into beautiful flowing lines

with no exact meaning

just a little bit of more truth

for the moment

tear bindings apart, if you have to,

let the guts wobble their way out

into the sunshine where they can warm

from the freeze we have been in

because someone decided who we were

and made ice sculptures of our warmest wishes

seep out of the blur and dance a dirge,

make others think you have lost their mind

of you

of us

write poetry about yourself on blossoms,

press words that come from the tip of your tongue

onto lips of lovers,

onto cheeks of sisters,

onto fingertips of children

let those who care to know you

taste your purple passion, pulsating

somewhere in the center of your head

but never give it away

no story is worth much without cost

we paid our dues, sisters.  Look,

a fire of fine books soon delivers ashes

that the wind picks up

or the rain makes cement of

let your story be carved with kisses,

with cup of hand

to breasts, to lovers’

wishes to enter that sacred channel

and find the voice that tells it all

in blue lines we have filled in

with purple words and turquoise tears

that were, for that moment,

our most real story

Tags: Letters to My Sisters //