Sunday’s a heaven day,
pink and yellow,
gauzy as a shroud.
It’s where fish—salmon—
twist in and out of a rainbow.
Aroma of turkey resurrects itself
from a bird on a grand white plate
where later yellow fat congeals slow.
blew Monday into my face.
Give me one good breath,
get the black wool out of my eyes.
Someone must remind every living sister
of waterfalls, of a field of clover,
of the opportunity of a chalice.
Two days—Wednesday and
Tuesday—ride an empty freight car
west…way out west,
share a handmade cigarette
between them or something. Who cares?
Meditation, burrow deep within yourself,
wallow and linger,
then exhume a pearl
or, better yet, Thursday.
White Friday, where a glimpse
of infinity opens up late afternoon.
Rocks go soft and turn to cream.
My bones are ivory,
my thighs frosted with sugar.
The perfect island, no passengers,
an absolute morsel of land,
Saturday floats un-owned.
Nancy Devine teaches high school English in Grand Forks, North Dakota where shes live. Her poetry, short fiction and essays have appeared in online and print journals.