Mary Kasimor
it never stopped raining patterns
like a ballet
I ate the pancakes during that time
it was blueberries again when I
was removed from my body
I sat by my grandmother’s morning
bellI carried the sculpture two blocks
away (it rained) on the river banks
I never stopped shooting the apple seeds
although I was well aware
of the dangers when part of my left
side went through the back door
hollyhocks grew out of the side
of the alley while I ate
the heroes werelocked in
dust but the story almost let them
out because it had a frontier woman’s
bone pile a piece of something
that held a pink umbrella
she sat on
a chair and watched the fan catch
the smoothness of sheetsI am swathed in white
I have left my toes uncovered