It reeks of disconnect –
the severed head,
but sing it must anyways
of the bluest bluebird high
dancing in the mountains
and the chickadee darting
on a thread of dee dee dee.
The desertion of dignity
happens with such ease
whether pant leg or skirt
betraying – no thought to
history of sadness on
a subject that twitches –
silence is honored,
no words needed here.
Lonely head you must
unthink the voices
crowding thought bereft
of love. I know the mind
whispers – will the day
ever come when
the arc of justice
bends towards the sun?
Hang on to the wing and
fly along with me
to Amazonia –
where the women are believed,
where the men actually love them,
where safety comes first
and reigns always.
Anne's mediocre poetry 