Crayon Clouds

What cloud islands today! Just how
a child I could have borne by now
would draw them, in all their crayon perfection
of loose-loop tops and crooked bottoms. Each
seemingly a nation, floating soft
in July blue.

My mind-scissors cut out
a piece of the parchment air –
I run to tack it to my internal refrigerator.
I want to rush home to hold her:
light long curls and a serious mouth,
a hug all arms and legs and weight
of total trust. Such heavy invisible love.

It’s not the first time this figment-child
has drawn me. I carry her
in hip-saddled grocery bags
and tell her of the castles along I-74, those
tall and grey and royal silo kingdoms
surrounded by green more Ireland than Illinois.

Yet, she is only me sometimes,
wanting mommy stories and a magic eraser
for all I wish I did not have to know
or fear
or hate.

To think I may have found the backdoor
to my own innocence…
laying under all these words.