mind your head (and your heart) as you walk out the midnight door

Before the moon breaks like an egg
on your hollow
of waxing man’s cheek,
mind your head
on the cuneiform door—

the frame
that will beg you
for more

as you walk
towards candles
on alters towards

The journey, they say!

It’s the journey, those they ‘s
from the dungeon inside
the dungeon inside
the dungeon of they
say.

What do they know anyway?

HA! Is what I say
to those pragmatic foghorns
of they:

I will have what I will when I bring it!

What will be, will be, will be—

never-mind all those secretive cuneiform doorframes
growing progressively smaller
with each pirouette
and turn;

smaller with each pictograph word;
smaller
until you are the essence behind
every word
like a feather

off bird.

Until I am as low
as poor Alice,
awake outside
of the dream,
dressed in a skin
made of bells
out of sight of the queen
of all men’s
bittersweet
bleeding heart chocolates—

I will mind my head on the cuneiform door,
lest the yolk of this life
eat me whole.

© Kristin Reynolds 12 12 2010