Monday it was time to lay down a little bit,
Monday it was clear in the sky.
I don’t trust Mondays.
They don’t have opinions about anything.
Anything, to them, can become everything,
And everything nothing.
I don’t like Mondays.
I rather have Fridays treat me like a stranger,
Than Mondays treat me like a friend.
This Monday,
When I laid low and bent my knees,
my collarbones came to my throat,
and proposed illicit advise.
I like my collarbones.
They are the wings of a bird unknown.
And they are older than me.
Predating my Grandma even.
The first woman in my clan had them.
And chose to pass it down.
To the next,
And to the next…
I am the chosen one.
The back of the bones say, in bronze engravings,
“Only to be given to the ones telling the story.”
I am telling the story.
Where anything is not everything,
And everything defiantly not nothing.
