Her assigned idiom had been “to kick the bucket,”
So, she put waxen crayon to white computer paper
And drew a stubby foot kicking a rusty, holey pail.
Strange how her biggest fear was never the after,
Or arachnids, or appendicitis, but owning a bigger life,
And her biggest desire was one she didn’t actually want:
To hear the acoustics of her name played on Cupid’s bow.
Why do we insist on being half when we are already whole?
Why are we in want when muses reside in our flexion creases?
She’s beginning to understand magic tricks aren’t accidental,
Like when you think of someone you haven’t seen in ages
And they appear in the store aisle you keep going back to
Just to look one more time. She’s been seeing street signs
And practicing archangel arithmetic because she’s Love’s
Nepotism baby—she gets what she asks for, rightfully so.
She suffered from olfactory hallucinations, had a realization:
You can’t always rely on your senses and reality is outdated,
So put feeling good first and consume imaginary sustenance.
Eureka! Let go. Do nothing. Figuratively speaking, you’ll float.
Put pen to paper and tell Her what you want because, Houdini,
We’re hungry for a show, and the universe has yet to wrong you.