Beanstalk

The bean plants are crawling up the trellis,
little curlicues weaving through the twine,
gripping and climbing diligently towards the sky,
making a ladder for a curious young man to ascend–
we’ll call him Jack–as good a name
as any. What’s a boy to do when he sees a plant
disappear into the clouds? When I was a girl,
I lived in the clouds, floated up out of my body,
mingling with storm-gatherers and angels.
Earth and its inhabitants
troubled me. Most clouds tricked me,
appearing like cotton candy
or billowing pillows,
but it was all an illusion and I came to realize
matter wasn’t solid, was full of space,
and I lived and breathed in the space
up there, so that when I was back on the earth,
trapped under somebody’s body,
I could find the smallest crawl space
and wiggle through his flesh,
float at the ceiling
until he was gone. I disappeared like Jack,
also discovering treasures stolen from my family
when I was ungrounded. What I found
more valuable than gold. I bring home a melody
that scrambles the dark truths of my youth
into beauty.