my name is pippi longstocking the second, and i’m not settling.
color-blocking apartment buildings, set down these old glasses and look at the world through blurry eyes-
is this the way a baby sees? general shapes of people, fuzzy colors,
no real clarity or distinct lines but enough curiosity to fill in the blanks.
i sit back in my yard, soaking up the sky like a sponge- the soft, foam kind my grandmother used to
rub me down with, not the scratchy brillo pad my mom
always made me use.
your aura is the bright green and yellow of leaves contrasting against the expanse of dry ocean above your head. this
coarse, grey porch swing is an exercise in self control-
one i will happily fail. it’s like wearing that creamy, frilly dress i saw in the store yesterday.
i’ve been transformed into a different person,
but there is a feeling of finding myself.
even my tan lines are pale in comparison to this lovely shade of brown,
my hands running down the powerful cord that crawls down your back. so this is
falling- learning to appreciate taste more and more with every passing day. we are paintbrushes for now,
dancing over a sheet of glass and staining it with
come on, let’s climb to the top of that ferris wheel like in that story
i always used to read,
the one where madeline ends up
traveling with the gypsies
and describing the world with such
and such a lack of political correctness that i laugh with delight each time i open the yellowed pages. someday, we’ll have a house
covered in vines, and we’ll go to the carnival
every day. no more
logarithms, no more beauty in the careful designs of the world.
our glory will be in the illogical,
in the impossible, in the purple bookcases i’ll fill with nonsense like you’ve
never read before,
words that don’t belong together thrown inside a book and then scribbled over with crayons and balanced
on our heads as we try to paint our walls with stripes
the colors of your eyes, my eyes, their eyes, purples and blues and browns
and yellows and greens. we’ll have a cherry blossom tree on our rooftop, and when it gets too cold to sleep, we’ll
clamber up the branches and watch the city,
laughing at the graveyards from behind our telescopes,
the flavor of exotic fruit on our lips and my feet clad in red tights, tangled in the branches.
(mm, this one was fun, one of my favorites so far.)