CHOCOLATE

From dusk to dawn,

I’d done everything

except exist:

rode upon the wings

of a dragonfly through

a Minnesota mist;

even learnt of one

third world child’s wish.

But before I could dilute,

the Universe bore me human

with steel knuckled hands. “Self-seeking townspeople,” my mother said. “They never look above them, to the sky. There are many dangers there.” So one day after school, I went to the grocery store to get a chocolate bar, looking up the entire time for danger. Mommy took my mind from those storms when she told me, “Pick out a chocolate bar.” Want to know my favorite thing about chocolate? The way it melts between the fingers of a three year old when her mother says, ‘No, honey,’ similar to the way

the mother of a young foal

had the audacity

to tell me ‘no’

when we attempted

to locate a home

for our insecurities to grow

into fine women. So on my 11th birthday, I looked up to see it raining and I planted my orange grove beyond the walls of our stucco home. The russet ground stuck to my fingers, under my nails, like chocolate. Does it taste like chocolate? I asked myself. If I asked Mom, she would only laugh at me and tell her friends and make a joke of it. So, I stuck my tongue out at it quick and it tasted

metallic, like the

cremated residue of war;

dust eroded my teeth

and made a home.

Eyes widen, catching

a white cross hidden

under the grass,

alone,

yet not as lonely as the soldier I had tasted in the moments we melted together. His sweat was like salt water upon my tongue, not sweet. “I love you,” he said, amber eyes focused on a prison of 13 tarnished bars, and 50 merciless stars. My shoulders shook and I cried as he left a trail of future plans behind in the image of our American flag, which hung over the fireplace with years of photos as if to taunt me: he will always choose me over you

but it isn’t your fault.

Give the individual within a chance to reconnect

with what it had before him.

Discover how to color

the grey matter

of your brain,

and trace the outline

of each exuberant membrane but don’t stay inside the immutable lines. While I drove along route 93, my tires hit the artificial bumps on the road but that isn’t what made me nauseous. Although I’d been driving for years, sometimes it felt like the first day behind the wheel. When I sit in my chair, I frequently adjust my rearview mirror. I smiled, thinking it would be nice to have a child with the skin of cocoa to ask, “Mommy, may I get this chocolate bar? I promise I’ll eat it all.” I could teach them when to stay inside the limits, and when to completely avoid an area within those barriers called lines.

The children

from my womb

will not be told ‘no’ or lies-

they will be brought up

as royalty in our castle of a home,

because this life is cast from

childhood’s mold.

And my child will

have concrete molding. “Let us go to the park,” I will say to little Rhetta as she peers through innocent, golden eyes. I will comply with her silent pleas as she takes my hand, allowing the chocolate bar to melt in the other. A muddy freshwater creek will follow us toward

the borders of her father’s final resting place,

Rhetta’s little saccharine park.

Pinecones create a path as they fall from their pine

trees- watching my daughter,

I noticed that I’m a tree and she’s the leaf. Her father was the wind which moved us, especially on her graduation day. Deep blue framed her figure and I will remember my own sea of royal blue all those years ago. My old bones will creak when I hold her tight. “Congratulations, Rhetta.” My daughter’s blonde hair will tickle my cheeks and wipe away my tears. I will utter to my daughter the ingredients needed to produce chocolate bars. She’ll need patience. “Thank you, Mom,” she’ll say

as I lie on my death bed.

She’ll need understanding.

The jackal of Anubis will joke in the center, red eyes far from kidding.

She’ll need bravery.

Lucifer would sew my sins to my chest,

forever reminding me of the things I failed to try my best.

She’ll need experience.

But Michael, he will bring me a chocolate bar.

“Do not fear,” he’ll declare to me.

“The Universe will bear you once again.”