they sternly stressed,
not to climb the granite steps,
where ivy-whispered promises
have tendrils that possess
the poisonous reminder
of the seriousness,
of raising a foot
above the cracks,
where night crawls
and wriggles to descent.
.
i was child
alive in the effortless,
without the carpet bag of regret,
the wooly-bear that rolls to protect,
predicting the weather
in perceptible hues.
so i went with no shoes,
as i usually do,
while the pressure cooker
rattled its violent spew,
attempting to call me home.
.
home, beneath the pines
that sung lullabies
and ground that branched
with berry sweet.
is it defiance or self-reliance,
this courage to bare the jugular
to your tender, stubbled kiss?
as i reminisce ,
seven sisters rain confetti,
fireflies sparkle beneath the trees,
fox prints bespeak a gentility.
who wouldn’t choose
to be free?
.
© M.G. Iannucci 2018
Art by Kate Powell
Who knows a black wedding day, is there such thing?
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Your usually well-chosen and placed words
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