i'll never be a poet

just go ahead let your hair down

she is a thinker.
every thought strung in woven tresses
night sky- black with scalp-stars
and each encoded hair is sent off
falls from root, willow leaves in the wind
floats into the universe:
entwining round fingers,
pooling round shower drains
bedding the floor in
lattice fossils of thought
to make space for more in her head.
if you pick them up
and consume-
either orally, normally, or
through the nasal passage like a reed
or by holding it to your ear like a grasshopper
a million whispers hiss and fizz
bounce and rocket off the walls of your mind
blunting and filing themselves down
until you realise
they've broken down
into a single silver star
that you can spit back out
into the void.

she is a dreamer.
every vision pours into
a pore on her face
filling and swelling the cavity
with milk and honey
with red-hot lava- blood
and water fuse in a ripe sphere
a globe, a planet
swirling with unmined riches
beneath its craterous crust.
no, grandma,
her future lover does eat all the rice on his plate!
these aren't consequences of
having a soulmate,
these dreams are her own to have.