Lizzy Burnam 🐞

Now even the clocks have forgotten 
the reliability of tides; what the ocean knows
but can’t communicate. 
Sparring with time, a delusion. 
You are the sky itself, Blue—castle-cracked 
in the head, a luxury as wide 
as the mind. Go baby go. 
We’ll meet again on Magnalia Street, 
with our belly breath back 
and news of a sapphire returned to a friend. 
Dear-worth, born of the true hungers 
of your time. Wonder-worth, 
a brain who recognizes its wilted body. 
Certainty (as all come to learn) 
is its own kind of neurosis. 
Open the goddamn box. To Wonders!
To Great Things! 
To a lemon behind the curtain! 
To a whole braid of garlic hung on a hook in the kitchen! 
I’ll kiss you on Tuesdays. 
I’ll kiss you on Fridays and Saturdays, too. 
I found my second soul laid comatose 
and fell asleep beside it, 
dreaming of white sand dunes 
and a lavender cloud, 
a peace I once thought was death. 
Through hell and back
into your arms, where every day 
is a good day to be alive.