Dear Mind

Let us take a holiday
from domestic doom,
and the possibility
of disaster ceaseless
as a club-thumping beat.
Let us evacuate, packing
everything we own, every object
that signifies home, into suitcases:
passport, family photographs,
money rolled thick as cigars,
books, music, leisure suits,
a map folded wrong way round,
and polyester evening gowns
with slit cut so high
and bodice cut so low
that everyone who sees us passing by
will slurp down a wolf whistle
and cry, “Whoa! There goes a
t
a
l
l
glass of water.”
But next thing you know,
I throw all our luggage
overboard
in panic.

That is regrettable.
My hollow body stands
on the ship’s bow as it begins
to go from the harbour,
while you, my mind, flap
your chapeau from the end
of the pier. I will send postcards
from flower-drenched islands,
“wishing you were here.”
You must understand
I was born on an iceberg:
everything I loved melted

beneath me, or broke
off the main and drifted away.
You must understand
I was raised in a forest,
embraced by a wildfire
mother and bound
by a grandfather
who wept gasoline
in a trail that would
guide him back home
from the dead.
Racing
from all directions
my thoughts simultaneously
reach an intersection
where all lights are green.
Mind, you must retreat
from the cacophony
of these busy streets!
I was young once, and whole
then. My sight showed visions
beyond the milky horizon,
and hearing the world’s call
to ceaselessly love it all,
I followed the wind,
loping over hills
and around path bends
without any knowledge—or fear—
of what might wait at the end.
Oh, let the wind speak again
to the soul that now crouches
inside my body like some blind
and wingless bird curled
timorously within its shell.
Let all parts of me commune,
hatching towards the open sky,
a wild being distracted by joy.