I disappear
into a world of words
to escape the ones
I hear, trap’d in this car.
Iris molecules
on passenger window,
periwinkle dots resemble me.
So I think,
if I were a puddle,
could ruin your shoes,
gather every drop,
tsunami
your truck-
take the jaws of life
to pluck out cotton
from the spiny shell.
If not, then I would
snorkel to Pluto
far from asphalt words
without winds
where tulips and lilies
bend too much
from shore,
to breathe space
in wait
for the return.
Instead, I open the car door.
Michelle Gilliam 