A Surrealist’s Dream

A woman once captured the moon in a silver birdcage,

where she spoon fed it minced midnight sky - and I never

knew whether she intended to nourish the light or keep her

captive alive and breathing. Yes, I heard the night sky

was safe to breathe, but a paper doll ought to be scared

of the night forest snatching her ribbon curls with sick

intentions. Branches too close to hands, always

too close to hands. I am always avoiding

hands these days because I carry a chrysanthemum

attached to my pinkie with a ball of yarn. My mossy

forearms grow up until they reach my Hydrangea

shoulderpads. I shake my grassy hair - watch the floral

patterns seeping out of my skin and around my thigh.

I am a child. I am living growth. I am blooming.

I am being eaten away.

~

I don’t remember who slashed open my stomach,

But one day I noticed green vines spilling out,

And all I could do was lay on my side and look

At the stars, but I could not see the moon.

Blood leaked from the veins of leaves but still

I wondered who had taken the moon from the

Sky?