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Lucky

I felt lucky today at the gas pump at Cumby’s
post-snowstorm,
the pickup trucks with their dragon breath
refueling, and New Order on the outside radio
as they pulled up and parked,
got cigarettes,
and the coffee from Ipanema
(available for a limited time)—

I decided the blinding sun and cracking icicles
were a sign, and invested
in the lottery:
the scratch-off cards hung
like ripe metallic fruit,
not at all forbidden
because we all deserve to get lucky—

And it doesn’t matter if I get
the horseshoe, or the wild eight
because I can see that winning number
already, pulsing and alive,
glowing in 3D from its portal of scratched silver
like I’m entitled to this
like a glittering birthright

I won’t say I didn’t win today
because I know how to read the signs,
and when I scratch it with the dime in my pocket,
I scratch it ALL—just to see how my desires look
in space and time, ink and paper
I’ve been rehearsing this number so long
and baby, I’m ready to roll

It’s a bright blue morning, and
today I’m an ambassador from insomnia,
carrying stardust in my smile
and supernovas in my sweatshirt pockets.
I carry the night’s dreams
with the steam clouding my window.
They are safe with me,
here in the light.

Today I feel lucky just to be here,
in this place of shiny and dark things
as my car fills with scents of coffee
and gasoline, and I’m still humming
Thieves Like Us as I put in the key
and as I drive off into this young day,

I know there’s a place for me
here today
because I am lucky —
I am all the winning numbers
hidden away in secret drawers
waiting for the mischief
of surprise

© Sarah K. Noack 2017

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Firefly

It seems
I’ve tripped
and landed in your tree,
little firefly
who lights up my nights—
more silver than moonlight,
more pensive than starlight,
your laughter is the blanket
my sleepy ears covet—
 
mischevious you
whose voice is the dancer
who follows my dream feet
into dark womb-caverns
where echoes play—
 
you are tender and deviant,
full of cool marble secrets
I hide in my pocket
to touch as I go about my days
 
and when I tell you I love you,
I mean that I have already put aside
everything
for you
(without even really
meaning to)
 
I mean that I carry you
everywhere like a charm,
and when I say your name,
my tongue grows arms
and embraces it—
 
I mean
that sometimes just hearing your voice
is the hovering whisper
of wings on my skin,
calling angels and devils
to come out and play
 
and that that I ache when you cry
and I would taste copper
should I hear of your predators,
and wake in the night
to tear their necks with my teeth.
 
When I say I love you,
I mean that I love you so much
knowing I can only watch,
and being entirely OK with this
 
because you are the shadow
who’s followed me
all the way home,
and come to rest in my bed
as peacefully as a falling kite
who has tired of the open sky.
 
When I keep you awake
with all my sordid secrets,
there is always one I solemnly keep:
that the deepest of them all is you—
 
because in in all our ease and mischief,
I have fallen
and scraped my knee
on the beauty of your soul
 
and I have tried in vain
to stop this bleeding,
but it’s funny how I’m
never needing
more than you can give—
 
because you are perfect to me
as only friends can be
and never cause me pain—
even when my heart
overflows with your essence,
we’re still laughing with each breathless breath—
ensconced in this womb of connection.
 
Firefly,
I never tire
of your shy phosphorescence
glowing in my night jar
that rests on my pillow,
tucked in the crook of my sleeping arm.
There is only love and more love
while I am watching you
from a thousand miles away,
holding on to you like a promise—
my closed eyes spilling over
with the swirling galaxies of your dreams.
 
© Sarah Noack 2008

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