BEKAH MALOVER

I was born an only child with hair, lots
of blonde hair. Sea urchins thought
I was their sister and could help build
their crystalline bones, but I was a crab
recklessly picking away at the their spines
to claw the inside flesh.

I wore a bucket on my head
and marched around like I
was the evil step mother of
Mother Earth. I married the sea
for his money then killed him
in his sleep with a vial of arsenic.

I licked the bowl of brownie batter
with gluttony. Chocolate decorated my face
like my great grandmother's wrinkles
and when I smiled, it looked like I
was missing a tooth, the rest
rotting on the seafloor next
to her sunken black pearls.

In the second grade, John Porter pushed me
from my monkey bar throne. With a fractured arm,
I weeped an ocean and built a driftwood castle
where my sister sea urchins could dwell in harmony.

Rain drops that instantly cool
Words that make the insane sane
Names that make you
want to fall in love

Would you rather be blind, deaf, or not smell the forest along the river?

The translucent green leaves that overlap like decoupage
The ptt ptt ptt of soles against the rocky trail
The crisp breeze that breaks with the waves-
The same one that rolls to my window every night as I take one last
deep inhale of the world before I escape it- Before my mind searches
for portraits and landscapes because if we can't see, what do we believe?

You want to give me the moon, but I
want Jupiter and its 67 natural satellites.

We could tie 67 lassos, so that the 67
moons could dance around one another,
twirling like children being spun
by their father until drool leaks
from their infinite smiles and
elegantly whirls with the wind.

We could anchor the ropes
in the eye of the anticyclone, you know
the big red spot, and get swept away
by the atmospheric pressure
and our love could turn like...
the anticyclone.

Except we can't anchor in Jupiter; it isn't solid.

Let the rope go. Let Jupiter float
like a lost balloon in the sky.