Do you not sometimes want to just leave
the city you’re in, to push off
in a raft you have made of your daybed—
white cotton sheets to the rising wind,
the rope of your dreams loosening
mortise and tenon joints from the four-
legged anchor that fixed your berth
all these years: one same returning
address, the one always at home to pick up
the pieces, return them to the frame
from which they’ve fallen or come loose,
she who’s asked to pay ransom after ransom
for those who left a long time ago,
not always knowing how much it costs—
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- You seem to be carrying a lot of guilt,
- A leaf falls,
- Dysecdisis
- From tree to tree
- Dia de los Muertos
- Notes
- A dove calls and calls,
- Seasonals
- Private: The Buddha sits at a communal table sipping a Prosecco
- Private: The Buddha in the garden thinks
- Holiday
- Private: The Buddha does not sing in the shower,
- The Buddha’s friend asks for her opinion
- What does it mean
- Harbor
For what it’s worth, I had not read this when I posted my erasure. We were both writing about sailing beds at the same time! What are the chances?
Wow! Perhaps our bed-vessels are part of a flotilla. :)