so
i'm skimming
thru the poetry section
(dewey-decimal 811)
and i'm noticing
great poets often wrote mediocre poems
and i'm thinking
maybe i could write one too.

Labels: By Ana

Her house is dark,
and she says
her hands used to reach shelves higher
but now like old trees
heavied by disaster,
they have fallen down
to earth.

so
i climb up
to their storybooks
held just beyond my cereal.
a spoonful for a sentence,
we’ll spoon the story dry
till we’ve climbed so high
nobody can touch us,
interrupt us,
till we're growing
younger older faster
we can see lifetimes together
falling page-by-page across the faces of the earth.
and we’ll unearth
our secrets
in dark rooms full of pearls
that we’ll pour
past our necks
till our stomachs swirl
with stories.

Labels: By Ana