The summer we drove over the border
into Kentucky, I waited for the grass
to turn suddenly blue,
as if there were places in the world
where you could cross into extraordinary.
It was the month of fireflies,
the month when the sun set late
and our apartment building
rose higher than any home I had known.
In the car after dark, I pretended to speak
a different language, exotic and untranslatable,
babbling jabberwocky words
until my parents hushed me.
Even then I wanted unreachable things.
Happiness tethered to the moon’s cloud mane
as my mind raced toward magic —
ignoring life’s bit and gripping any illusion
that would take me
all the way to impossible.
*
Originally published in Kirlian Effect (FutureCycle Press)
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About the Creator
Lori Lamothe
Poet, Writer, Mom. Owner of two rescue huskies. Former baker who writes on books, true crime, culture and fiction.
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