It feels good not to talk-
the way the mouth feels
when it's full of pepper.
We are comfortable
waiting for the burn
to wear off so we can
shapeshift back into place.

We gaze from mirrors,
chewing the possibility
we might not understand
until we're ready,
like trees shaking off
responsibility.

We come to grips with
sun and moon-
my parmesan heart
grated by too many pronouns.
If I could only freefall
into all the stars you are.

Sara Fielder © June 2018