Will you love me less?

If you flip further through my pages with your eyes like machetes

and you taste papaya cinnamon as you chop the last chapters

but you prefer the taste of warm banana walnut bread like your mother used to make

will you put me down without a bookmark?

If you sit me up on your bookshelf to dance motionless atop the crystal bubble spritzing snow on the Los Angeles Zoo,

and if I slip off the round glass to rest on my belly with the mosaic snakes

and lend plushness to the paralyzed seashell garden on the shelf below,

will you send me back to the store for a refund of your memory?

If I zip over swamps to the arrow-tune of your call, searching for spindly water-bugs to bring to the foyer of your mangrove forest

and my wings catch on fire in the afternoon of children skipping rocks

will you hang a new chandelier of glittering eggs upon the branches of your palace

and will you lose your taste for dragons who fly too close to the sun?

And if despite the rainbow reinforcements that pin my body up to Heaven’s waterfall, where my brain bathes in the clearest of heather-scented music, if despite the perfect world you thought up for me I still think differently,

will you love me less

or not at all?


Image credit: By “Mike” Michael L. Baird, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3136373


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