Leap a little, do a bit of an Irish jig,
perhaps every day,
perhaps while standing in line at the Post Office.
No, because you read it from my mind,
do something different, something fresh
on your own:
like singing opera at the gym
during a “serious work out”,
or walking down the isles at the supermarket
playing a harmonica, smiling at everyone.
If you are a woman, do something wild
and Lilly-like every day:
like giving a purple or golden scarf
to an old woman in a nursing home
and fashioning flowers into her hair…
or, out-crazying the children,
riding their makeshift pulley out to the stars.
If you are a man, do a prophetical act everyday:
like running out of the office
and digging your hands into the earth,
rubbing it into your face.
Then wash the dirt into the bathroom sink
as you hum sea chanteys
and spit into the waste basket,
rubbing your cheek where a beard should be,
and speaking like a pirate into the mirror,
telling all God’s invisible warriors
that you would pour your blood out upon a stone
for one whiff of the fragrance
of a wild woman’s spirit,
and that you would just as well grasp wind or fire
as that lady’s freedom.
There are some women
—rare as blue horses—
who burn with life,
who emit sparks,
whose words ricochet around the room.
You may ask them a simple question
and their spirits quiver, then suddenly expand
far beyond the boundaries of their bodies
like tidal surges,
like thunderous waves of green water and foam,
flushing away all grayness,
washing concrete down drains.