Beanstalk
By Dawn Trook Posted in Poetry on June 27, 2013 0 Comments 1 min read
On Going (or Not Going) to Concerts Previous Playing with Earth Next

The bean plants are crawling up the trellis,
little curlicues weaving through the twine,
gripping and climbing diligently towards the sky,
making a ladder for a curious young man to ascend–
we’ll call him Jack–as good a name
as any. What’s a boy to do when he sees a plant
disappear into the clouds? When I was a girl,
I lived in the clouds, floated up out of my body,
mingling with storm-gatherers and angels.
Earth and its inhabitants
troubled me. Most clouds tricked me,
appearing like cotton candy
or billowing pillows,
but it was all an illusion and I came to realize
matter wasn’t solid, was full of space,
and I lived and breathed in the space
up there, so that when I was back on the earth,
trapped under somebody’s body,
I could find the smallest crawl space
and wiggle through his flesh,
float at the ceiling
until he was gone. I disappeared like Jack,
also discovering treasures stolen from my family
when I was ungrounded. What I found
more valuable than gold. I bring home a melody
that scrambles the dark truths of my youth
into beauty.


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