Pillowcase
In Monday’s dream,
our hands slide through light like blue honey
and I wake up with my guard down.
I want to go back into the indigo room,
where the neighbors’ tomatoes
are my tomatoes and I’m not afraid
of starting a garden, of holding
something alive in my palm.
I hang my salt-and-buttered bones
on the clothesline in the yard
and give the fat hummingbird a kiss
with a perfect lipstick stain.
My candy anklet never tangles and
there are endless roots to climb down,
because the world is my sister and she lives
to make me laugh, to braid my hair,
to lace our fingers together and drag me
breathless back into the honey.
Brynn Fields is a junior at University of Denver in Denver, Colorado, pursuing a degree in Environmental Science. She is interested in poems drawing on ecological themes and the fragility of the human body. This is her first publication.
The Albion Review 