Didi Jackson
Split
If I could just thumb
the horizon, its knife edge,
allow my hand to slither
the black line that runs
for days. If I could snake,
if I could box, if I could slat,
if I could turtle and pedal and well.
A holy well with ancient hymns
in the ripples. A box turtle
with a dome shell. And a fence
for the moon. A toccata & fugue.
If I was the aftermath or was thrifted
like an old coat. When I am round
and look in the mirror, I only see
square. One of the three sisters
might erupt in my lifetime.
They flirt with the sky
that tends to be too remote.
Messy with salt stars. Though, I like
the sky. It is a darling in the morning
when the light is a moody blue
and the pines cast their green shadows.
The sun might decide to lift and follow
any tiny swallow skimming for food
along the invisible tremors of blaze.
If I were that swallow. If I were the sappy trunk.
If I were whole. If I could never be hurt.