We were promised that dragons would rise

from our bodies, that the monkeys would leap

from us and cover the eyes of those we love,

and that a golden fish of hope would charge

out from the sewers in our stomachs.

 

But lately only this slinky black cat leaps

straight out of my heart, a cheat cutting

corners, trying to spring past this body

and onto a balcony where a cup of milk balances

on the railing, and stars fly past without warning.

 

The last light of day hangs loose and exposed

down building walls like skinned carcasses

in a butcher shop. Everyone’s mouth

is lodged with a stone, and we want too much.

Time crawls and does not yawn for anyone.

 

Tonight, when you go outside to sit on your lawn,

your mind droops down on its stalk like a rose.

Let the night-insects come and drink. Sadness

can only howl from the blue hill for so long.

 

And when that howl quiets you will wish

you had someone else’s hand to hold, other your own.

These hands have seemed so small as to slip through

their own fingers like slashes of light. But these hands, too,

can surprise you. They will sing their own song,

gaining speed and color, rising out of the palm.

 

 

Taya Kitaysky, Fairbanks, AK