by Clarissa Jakobsons.
Playful butterflies check milkweed plants
then fly away like shooting stars turning
Venus and Saturn upside down. Rainwater
cleanses my hair. I rub cooked oatmeal
into maple roots releasing crimson acrylics
onto canvas. A disguised red hen answers
the dead landline, stealing axe trimmed
eggs with an axe. Neighbor foxes ravage
berry baskets feeding hundreds of kits
with my lunch. I fume, chewing pencils
on the lawn watching the screwdriver
swerve Amazon against traffic. I sprinkle
dolls with golden karma, splitting
and spitting split peas, cleansed and drained
in Cuyahoga River waters waiting
for dolphins to reappear. Golden locks
separate my toes, pulling a scarlet tail through
the vest of your slacks with my forked tongue.