Dancing Blue Flames

Chicago.

Here we are. With you.

The fireplace is attempting to be rageful.

My heart is attempting to be restful.

You remind me, Chicago, of glittery dreams. I dreamt of them. Last night.

My brother is manlier this time o’round. Bearded and more well read than the yester year.

My sister looks the same. Lovely and pretty and smart.

I know this well because I saw her in Seattle almost every week. Hey there.

Chicago,

I don’t actually live inside you. Like an unborn baby.

No. I am not proper.

Only wanting to be.

Outside the city limits live the Smith’s.

Where we are contented by Frank Lloyd Wright’s fainted fingerprints covering our heads.

I love this home.

I sleep in a different room now, with a man, in my parent’s house.

Weird.

But good.

But missing slumber parties with my sister.

But…

Chicago, do you need me? Or my husband?

Do we need your blustering, wretched winters?

The snow has laid its claim here. I want to eat it and swim in it.

While holding my breath and closing my eyes from the snow, I wonder how to connect with those who’ve known me.

Still.

Still.

Wondering,

wondering,

how to be here.

A bear’s life interests me, currently.

Only now though.

Only now.

Boot straps are attempting to flap up, on their own. Slapping me in the shins.

Keep on. Keep on.

Chicago.

Wiggle your toosh. And I’ll wiggle mine.

Dancing with you can smooth all of my itches and angstes.

Sigh.

My back is slowly roasting into some fine meat. From the dancing blue flames.

I write this word and this word                              and that                       word.

Finding solace. For now.

Here outside of the dazzling Chicago.

Chicago.

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1 Comment

Filed under anathallo, seasons

One response to “Dancing Blue Flames

  1. Rachel Stringer

    Good!

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