I dreamed the moon, swimming
in a silver bowl. I looked down
spiral steps, along the twist
of the double helix, the nautilus-self, down
the esophagus snake pinkly wavering
into the jungled thorax. I slid myself
between the shadowed ribs
till I stood on the landing
outside the scarlet heart.
I saw it, faintly glowing,
as if night's last candle still burned in
that misshapen domicile of gnomes,
untenanted, abandoned, shedding
the shingles of old scars,
quietly pulsing through the dustspin,
centering the cyclone.
I looked at the dotted door
too small to enter
the lock could find a key.
I looked at the scrawl-crusted walls,
the graffitied initials of old owners
illegible now. Then, with a sigh
deep as indigo,
white as winter air, the bowl
tipped out the moon and I
picked up the axe.
posted for real toads
Kerry's Wednesday Challenge: The Prelude
I am a bit late to Kerry O'Connor's always challenging Wednesday event, where she asked us to write a prelude to a poem as yet, or possibly forever unwritten, a story still to be told. I hope I've come up with one of those.
Image: Born Again, by Remedios Varo
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