You will awake in your very own bed
a fuzzy blue caterpillar still in
your head. Aloft upon a speckled red
mushroom above, he asks you two questions:
who are you? What do you love? You mutter
but buttercups bloom from your lips. The words
you would utter all gibberish. Putter
with buttons until you are bare, bluebirds
beside you, mums in your hair like they were
in the meadow where you wandered one day—
ever inside though you can’t stay. Adventures
remembered with fingertips, you trace
their touches— monarchs, mad men, memoirists
who educated an adventuress.
You must be logged in to post a comment.