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I lie to the stars, keeping them in stitches.

An orange balloon will pop,

getting a kick out of this.

Temperature is the main factor affecting

each snowflake’s shape and intricacies.

A woman of the north, I’m made

for sleeping in layers and being a spark.

Two bodies are warmer than one.

 

I lie all the time.

To god and to myself.

I look better than you in leather jackets.

See what I mean?

My students are too cool to feel anything yet

I spy a smile fighting to hide itself.

I skim the history of humankind:

mobs, marshes, meaningless wars.

 

Do you have a map of the world? one kid asks,

and I get sarcastic, “not on me,” but then

fetch her the globe from the corner.

Next door, kids chew pencils, ignore a lecture

by their teacher (general racket).

My walk home is longer than my hair.

It’s raining off and on.

That’s just the way things are.

 

I keep company with myself, a pillow fantasy,

and a fistful of saltwater taffy.

Why green? Why chlorophyll-colored hope

at May’s final breaths?

That’s just the way things are.

Whatever, I guess.

Whatever I guess is the correct answer.

I’m witchy that way. 

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