In a private square capita (3/20/26)
In a private square capita of my private quadrant of the Garden of Eden where it lives in my brain, there is a swing set on a bed of dirty sand, a haven where I've stayed a good majority of my life. A cocktail of sound and color, bright primary colors, a kaleidoscope of everything I was sure everything could be. I gift it back to myself, a courtesy. Upon its mention I inherit its paradise. In my private Garden of Eden, there is no "LinkedIn." There are no email addresses. There are no addresses at all. There is only warm water and rolled up jean legs, only the sound it makes when you feel awash with gentle sleep. The bees live forever. The dogs never die. Only you, your hands wedged between two low desks on a patterned carpet, only your magnet earrings and the kind of fear you own can water its shrubs. Only your tears, gathered and earned, May fill the fountains, adorned with mermaid sculptures, and bathed in that precious kind of backyard lighting after sunset. Only then sings the body voltaic, and then might you return upon a vacant summer and an ease in the air.
pic from softpajamas on pinterest