She’s swinging from a different home plate
Our dictionaries don’t have enough words for her
She needs more
But not from here
Cause she’s not from here
She’s from everywhere we’re not
And when she writes
We are well aware of it
She spears me through the heart with her lines
But the last word never fails to politely cauterize
So her poetry leaves a mark
Fascia tattoos from Planet M
Messages sinking deeper in
Underneath everything human
Into the soul’s skin

That’s the reach of her pen
(Down below the circus of our understanding)

She lives down there, and sends postcards up
In the form of poetry

Dear so and so,
“there is a hole in your belly.

this is where those precious things fall that you drop”

Dear Mariah,
I know, I know
But I can’t seem to keep my hands dry

Knowing she will just sigh
And keep writing her poetry post cards
Postmarked “upstairs”

As the circus bustles and bangs above
I am sure she takes breaks
And comes up
For cotton candy
(blue/orange - yellow/purple)
of course