Beanstalk

The bean plants are crawling up the trellis,

little curlicues weaving through the twine,

gripping and climbing diligently towards the sky,

making a ladder for a curious young man to ascend--

we'll call him Jack--as good a name

as any. What's a boy to do when he sees a plant

disappear into the clouds? When I was a girl,

I lived in the clouds, floated up out of my body,

mingling with storm-gatherers and angels.

Earth and its inhabitants

troubled me. Most clouds tricked me,

appearing like cotton candy

or billowing pillows,

but it was all an illusion and I came to realize

matter wasn't solid, was full of space,

and I lived and breathed in the space

up there, so that when I was back on the earth,

trapped under somebody's body,

I could find the smallest crawl space

and wiggle through his flesh,

float at the ceiling

until he was gone. I disappeared like Jack,

also discovering treasures stolen from my family

when I was ungrounded. What I found

more valuable than gold. I bring home a melody

that scrambles the dark truths of my youth

into beauty.