33 UMBRELLAS
by Jennifer K. Sweeney
In your sleep
the year advanced.
Perhaps in a Japanese rainstorm
33 umbrellas opened at precisely
the same moment—
a ballooning
then a click—
and you were allowed further.
Go with your blue apples
falling from the night-trees.
Go with your muddled
light.
Carve impossible faces
in the pumpkin.
Scoop a net of seeds—
one for the trouble you’ve caused,
the rest for the trouble
you wish you caused.
The skeletons wear marigolds
for eyes.
They let you pass,
lantern-hearted, happy.
***
Jennifer K. Sweeney is the author of two poetry collections: Salt Memory (Main Street Rag, 2006), available at Amazon.com, and How to Live on Bread and Music (Perugia Press, 2009), available at Amazon.com. Visit the author at jenniferksweeney.com. This remarkable poet offers private instruction and poetry critiques. Learn more here.
Painting by xetobyte, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. View xetobyte’s art at deviantart.com.
Silver Birch Press 