Daisy Chain

Please do not worry 

that my blood runs so cold I can no longer

appreciate the views from the scuffed roof

and the light-wooded light-footed lunch rooms—

caked in growing pains from coming into one’s self,

words caught in a throat

too tight to say what I really mean.

Childhood pajamas—paint for me all of your 

messy crayon feelings

tell me that I’m special.

Please.

Ramona Quimby and Georgia O’Keeffe 

speak through this insecurity.

Teach me your ways oh wise ones

let me follow in your much larger footsteps.

Blurry lines of worth-everything letters

birth poison-filled fangs; a mess of claws and stabbing words

tumbling over one another to climb jagged mountains.

Four years of dagger sharp chords, plucked strings in 

haunting never-ceasing melodies—

Close your eyes—all of you—please

and listen to the whispers.

You can hear their voices if you pay attention.

If you pay close enough attention.

Follow this daisy chain, a map around the world in 1,620 days

point B. From the ocean and the fog and the colored pencils

Red and Gold shouts of integrity

they sing for me to return

loud then soft then spilling with intention.