Robin York  © 2007 All Rights Reserved

33 UMBRELLAS

In your sleep
the year advanced.
Perhaps in a Japanese rainstorm

33 umbrellas opened at precisely
the same moment—
a ballooning

then a click—
and you were allowed further.
Go with your blue apples

falling from the night-trees.
Go with your muddled
light.

Carve impossible faces
in the pumpkin.
Scoop a net of seeds—

one for the trouble you’ve caused
the rest for the trouble
you wish you caused.

The skeletons wear marigolds
for eyes.
They let you pass,

lantern-hearted, happy.

Jennifer K. Sweeney
Copyright © 2007

 

Jennifer K. Sweeney is a teacher and writer in San Francisco. She won the 2006 Main Street Rag Poetry Book Award and her book, Salt Memory, was published last November. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in: Hayden’s Ferry Review, Barrow Street, Passages North, Hunger Mountain, Puerto del Sol, RUNES, Subtropics, Water-Stone and elsewhere.
 


Table of Contents            Next Poem            Guidelines