new Poetry

this world will not fulfill me

 

life is a series of blue moons
indigo children traipsing on metal shells
I can see the constellations stumble
from my hideout in this cropduster graveyard

my feet long to taste black sand
my dreams are mercury-infused
zigzagging lucidity leaves me buzzing
caffeine has nothing on catharsis

I want to form a caravan
float to rocking gondolas
in the carcass of a carnival in Madrid

but this life is like mashing every button
on a broken-down elevator
I wash my hair in water that was once a glacier
and I weep for clutter
BPA, artificial lighting, ten-car pile ups and artists

self-induced hypnosis
is all that helps
I swallow acid reflux
and scratch at budding hives

death is a parent's approving smile
applause for the last wobbling steps
I could stop straining now
break my toes and fold into a cedar box
I've always wanted to live in a treehouse

 

-Bethany Walker