WHOLESOME

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I’ll never get how familiarities turn into strangers
Or why sugary orange popsicles turn into puddles
Or how the moons orbit within the ebony sky.
I always used to ask my parents a lot of questions
But they’d shake their heads at me and say
“Tess, you’re asking too many questions again.”

And I’d still repeat them again and again,
Until my parents pretended they were strangers
But I’d just laugh and play in the rain puddles
Underneath the amber afternoon sky
Capriciously jumping. I had no questions
To ask, but I always knew just what to say.

If someone else didn’t know what to say,
I’d help them forcefully open their mouths again.
I never had a problem talking to strangers,
Even though my parents taught me puddles
Of information on stranger-danger. But when the sky
Is green is when I’ll listen to my parents’ questions.

Is there such thing as an inadequate question?
Was that an inadequate question? What did I just say?
I don’t like the uncertainty of not knowing, again
I seek out my imperfections in unsuspecting strangers
And find the beauty in horrific and melted snow puddles,
But I sometimes find my answers from the stars in the sky

And if I were able to pull a star from the sky
I would let it dance on my palms, without question
I’d let its beam weave through my fingers. It’d say
“Please, don’t hurt me. Please don’t crush me again”
And I would apologize, on behalf of the cruel strangers,
Who let their stars droop gloomily into thin puddles.

If you ask me, the most striking puddles
Are those you can’t quite grasp, like the sky.
Their bottomless mysteries produce many questions
And without skipping a beat, I’d turn to my mother and say
“Mommy, why did the stars leave the sky again?
They visit so infrequently, why have they become strangers?”

Before I fall, I find my reflections in puddles. To them, I say
“Hello!” I’d ask them no questions before leaving for the sky
And at last, my mom finds me talking to strangers again.





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