TRAVELING TO THE HOMELAND
sometimes I long
to do nothing more exciting
than wear a hat,
study the tax code,
and wait for visions.
sometimes I put on my pink pants,
daring to dance around the edges
of the social scene, managing to fling myself
through life as though through
the temptation of a plate-glass door,
demanding more
than the typical shatterproof woman
has any right to.
but behind my ribs,
behind the cage of these silent bones,
I am filled with dazzling words,
vibrant, colored threads of sound.
at night I am vocal,
tying random images together,
but in the daytime I bend.
and when I contemplate the end of being,
I forget taxes,
I forget pants,
I forget words.