question

the way, mary jane, you say you hurt, 
make me think that you have a heart made with 10 million packets 
of Domino sugar, powdered Bon Bons and yellow, Indian sand.

i want to hold the periphery of your cheek
and massage Olive oil, camphor and chocolate.
everywhere. behind your ears. nipples.
and the inner folds of your hibiscus vagina.

i want to scratch the lesions 
around your navel. lick your blood
to taste how saccharine and sugary you can be,
and stitch dandelions to your toes.

so that you may have a reason to smile.
and eat breakfast of sunshine, figs and lotus roots.
for dinner you may drink a swirlie
of tears, sweat and almonds 
encased in the confines of a narrow perimeter.
where rivers have birthed, 
leaves have crinkled,
and myna birds have fluttered across meshes of corn.

you have loved Main Street
and grown proud of reform,
telling yourself -I am purposeful in this town
I am a white woman, locally brewed,
I know this territory -it is familiar.
I fear sometimes that familiarity 
has scissored right through the stretches of your imagination
and made you fearful of being uprooted. 

i want to urge you to re-convene 
and re-aggregate pieces of yourself
sit around the flicker of a vanilla candle 
and ask -am I truly happy?