by Candy Rohde
flows around corners
topped by a cloche with a quill or
a Stetson sprinkled with dew,
billowing clothes cut from
bright parachutes, spitting sparks.
I’ve seen her soar on flying fish wings,
nosedive into black Blue Holes,
slough her skin under vines of a banyan.
I’ve startled her doing a headstand
sprouting lines from Ondaatje, or
pirouetting on the ceiling
spinning the salad.
A solitary child, she winced
when red marks slashed her words,
until Imagination airlifted her to a new planet.
When she sighs, Spontaneity floats her
high on a hot pink trapeze,
or rolls her out on a long Bacchanal.
She unplugs the phone,
ignores dull requests, but
never says no to a joll with
Curiosity in day-glo.
She hurls open windows,
lets dust bunnies breed,
makes Adversity tango,
if he knocks on her knees.
She puts Interruption on a ship that won’t dock,
wills Distraction to become hooked on the slots,
exiles Boredom to make budgets and lists,
craves to practice euthanasia on
for sucking up her oxygen.
As difficult to seduce as a rocket trail,
she will, when riding on the shoulders
offer a similar thrill to skydiving with swallows.
To leash her would be as reckless
as bottling angels on horseback.
She may even introduce you
to her friend Mystery,
the one feeding her dutiful dung beetle
passion seeds to make him