I made a map that I found
and brought it to my girlfriend
in her morning tea-leaves.
“It’s the sky,” she declared,
her birds-eye feathers flaring
& clenched-beak tail straight.
“We must climb there by boat
& sail under the winds of
the clouds. Bring your pack.”
Her navigating led us to the
wishing well that fed the
fountain of youth & tree of life.
That was her name for it,
I called it the statement trap
as she tossed down wish after wish.
I told it I was supposed to
be in Europe by now, fast
track to retirement, age 24.
I told it I wanted to name the
color of red sunburn meets
browned skin by the blue pool.
The well was brick & mortar deep
& your wishes thudded resonantly
upon wet cliffs out of sight below.
You wished for sunglasses with
your name on them & flavors that
would last all night long.
You wished for exclusive rights
to your own memories & unparalleled
control in the tidings of Karma.
But we left before we got
our answers or even our
white paper itemized receipts.
Because you know that one fear
you get when you are sick? Not so
much that you are ill, but another.
Like you are too scared to make
an appointment to find out how
bad it really is.
And as we picked dandelion petals
and requested more & more of others,
we began to ask less & less of ourselves.
Nate Stein’s favorite art is poetry, though he also enjoys drawing in inks and playing on pianos. He would like to consider himself an outside writer but truthfully he does much of his writing indoors. He blogs at http://natestein.wordpress.com.