queenpin

the muse reminds me…

Your Queendom has grown
with each consonant and warm vowel
each day laying the brick of your word castle.

Your Queendome holds many
abandoned little one
hungry wolf
healer
wizard
saboteur
all threads in woven carpets that take flight.

Each has a room furnished with memory
each has a seat at your limitless table
where feet dance amid the fruit
where peacocks write operas
and skunk poets smell of bergamot.

A table where the moon pours her latest vintage in open hand cups in prayer.
where a cold lost heart trailing his aorta like a tail
strikes up a conversation with a pomegranate
a cagey cloud finds solace in the eye of a fox
a branch bursts through a knot in the wood surface
and showers cherry blossoms into dessert cups
a roving choir of songbirds sing natures psalms & collect crumb offerings.

And you,
the Queenpin
honey blood on fingertips
sticky with delight
curl into your black feather blanket woven with bones & garnet
giggling & sniffing.

You Queenpin crawl under the table to tickle toes, spit polish shoes
and make clandestine plans with a sleepy bear.

You Queenpin don your obsidian chariot, flamenco stilettos
and carve compas (rhythm) into each grain of each slab
of each cochlea curve
a visceral visual feast for each swirling constellation eye.

There are no walls in this Queendome.
no doors or locks
the inner is the outer
the winds as welcome as the warrior
the dirt as welcome as the dawn
the sword arrives as sage
golden glint mirrors sweet nothingness.