Dandelions
so, there's jane.
except, her name isn't really jane.
we call her jane because giving her a name,
well -
that would make her real.
so, there's not-jane in the middle of a
field, except -
it's not really a field but a patch of grass
next to our building.
not-jane sits in the not-field and
knots blades of grass together
if only to watch them bend and snap.
and then there's me, except
it's not me
if only for the reason i've outgrown myself.
can you picture it?
not-jane and not-me in a not-field
sitting with our legs crossed,
as if to ward away the darkness.
not-jane with the flimsy, nimble fingers
clutches a dandelion in her fist
and shoves it in my face
and not-me, with the grace of a
new born baby deer,
opens my mouth in question
and suddenly not-me has a flower in her mouth.
elegant, i know.
not-jane starts to giggle and not-me can't help
but join in, too
because not-me has always like the way
not-jane tucks her hair behind her ears
and bats her eyelashes.
not-me swallows down the feelings
crawling up my throat,
and barely notices the dandelions
following suit.
not-me goes home and writes
amateur love poems
on single sheets of paper;
crumbles them up
and swallows them, too.
not-me isn't me
and me, well
i pick the dandelions and blow them out
myself.
not-jane never found the love poems;
not-jane never swallowed the dandelions.
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