Heiress of Meaning: A Poem

photo by author

photo by author

I remember when overused pillows
were a life force. There was something mysterious
behind sud bubbles, and towels
snarled in the dryer. My nervous habits
revealed something significant about the
universe. When I snuck ice cream
at midnight, I tricked God
into thinking I would not gain weight (it worked
when I still had energy for exercise).
And when I read a book,
I really read it, felt
every character arch, swerved
with the plot, ducked
and groaned
and wept and yelled.
I made friends and enemies, fell
in love, clutched a broadsword
in my little hand. But now,
I am untouchable.
Fireworks cannot shake me. A rollercoaster
is a chair in motion.
God tricked me back, in the most malicious
of ways––I believed I possessed some
special power of attribution before he took
my Midas touch away.
I can no longer hear the mountains snore.
The stars won’t speak to me.


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