The Most Effective Lullaby
may I fold myself into your arms,
lifted as if in a rolling canoe to the luminous green
of your glowing heart?
Amidst the breezy morning, the croaking
of midnight frogs - the lazy
and hypnotic hum of ceiling fans -
words-stars-fireflies cascade over our hushing house,
a tidal wave of new that whispers
cool droplets to our skin.
Cardinals dance beside goldfinches
in a long-revered tradition
to make primary colours within
the ancient sky and I ride
my white white bicycle
in the kaleidoscope seams of freshness.
The rooms are full of acne-free faces,
strewn DVD cases
and the carefree consumption
of comfort foods and strawberries leaking down chins.
Music pounds from our pores,
and light is refracted by crystal chimes
in the shape of dolphins;
pools of nostalgia are slurped
off the countertops through plastic straws
coloured pink and perky purple.
Air so permeated with alacrity
that it stings the eyes like washing soda
scrubs snow out of my skin and promises peaches -
I smell sunsets, like campfire smoke; there's a flash
of yellow Converse pounding asphalt and beaches
lit by the evening in parallel lines.
I wish my IQ was higher, as logarithmic spirals set fire
to Rushdie, Mistry, Ricci, Crummey -
but it's summer and just cutting the grass
instills in me more knowledge than all my textbooks,
and thunderstorms sing with windy voices
against my so soft pillowcase
to lull me tenderly to sleep.
~ Megan Boothby