jasmine. We wore them lightly.
Our breasts fell in love.
It was the year enchantments sold
two-for-one or five for a blessing.
Our pillows filled with grasshoppers.
Crickets deciphered our dreams.
That year children became pinwheels.
That year Ferris wheels spun out-of-control.
It was the year birds held a conference.
At scheduled breaks they perched on our
shoulders, singing songs of love and loss.
After a rain the land wept at the beauty of life.
Sarah Sarai rides buses and subways on and under the infinite boroughs of New York City. She recently checked some links to her poetry and fiction at My 3000 Loving Arms, and confirmed that even in the universe of poetry and fiction, it's all mutable.Less mutable is The Writing Disorder (writingdisorder.com),