My World

In my world, my ribs poke through

and I can touch them with my fingers

and clean them off

and glue them up

and carve hymns on ivory

I get one wish before breakfast every morning

with a side of poetry

Every flower is yellow,

except for the very special ones,

which are every shade of blue

Every Sunday night bleeds cold rain,

and if you hold out your tongue it tastes like a state of mind

Calligraphy is the chosen form of flattery,

followed by wood carvings

and a kiss on the hair

In my world, I am a butterfly and

people know me by the diamonds on my throat

and the gold down my spine

I can take as many pills as I want to grow stronger faster and longer,

and some capsules can be opened up and

sprinkled over teeth like candy

In my world, I live in a hole in the ground

with nice furniture

and a view of the sky

and the sky is stained glass when it’s cold or

two souls have been reunited,

because blue skies should be reserved for everydays

Fireflies are on-call from nine to five in the morning

to mirror constellations,

and if you ask them nicely they will

crawl in your ears to light up dark musings

Once a millennium,

a piece of the galaxy will fall to earth for girls to smoke before bed and

wake up with centuries-old memories

Cherries are strung over cradles,

an ode to an old wives tale that

it will make their children astronomers

If they’d prefer a philosopher,

they merely need gift their child a question

and ask them to return with one thousand answers

In my world, I don’t live forever,

just as long as I want,

and I walk to my funeral

whistling with the bluejays come to sing their blessings

as I walk, and walk, and walk

and never return

In my world