The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2011

Falling Not Called Falling

My soul glimmered tiny, like Tinkerbell;

I was falling, but no one else saw.

My eyes cried, till a cracked open heart

seemed only pieces to me, unfixable.

Not beach-hot sand, nor cool-drink ice;

nor sweet chocolate, nor warm Chinese tea.

Bruised knee, above the scar, above wound,

preventing walking; thus, a stopping.

As if time stood, while world-swirl

kept happening to others, with flowers.

And I fell, misremembering childhood

and dreams, wanting what couldn’t be had.

My sucking motions said my name

to a lady in white, who suspected,

so I stayed home, till my pointy horns

dissolved, by magic potions I recommend,

except they took years, as I lay under lamps.

So I hereby attest: a fall is a fall is a fall;

and if you see the Angel, help her; and

believe in the white lady; and get glue

for your friends’ broken pieces;

and tell them yes, I see your broken heart.

Muriel Karr