here's the vivid crayon of the sun
the one that's not broken
the very one you could peel
instead of oranges
if the fairytale required it-
to survive
and the gold foil
chocolate coins in
nets of confetti-stars
fall out of the cupboards
of old houses
whenever you yank the
little glass knobs too hard-
where youill sit down to supper
in your new thrift-store
dress with a second-best
stiff-starch magenta petticoat;
it's fine as Christmas wrapping,
pleated like a star
only God could summon
even as another interview falls through
or simply melts away...
so sorry they say, turns out
we gave that job to someone else today
there's still the lemon-waxy streetlight where
the last bus waits for you
only slightly transfigured.
mary angela douglas 21 august 2010; 2 october 2023
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem