Photo by Fiona Art on

(this is a poem I posted to my website a couple weeks ago, and I thought I'd repost it here.)


Thoughts don't have edges the way objects do.

In my dreams I picture people perfect,

though in the waking world I only recall fuzzy arms moving,

or someone's hair.

In my head, the day Saturday reminds me of the game Operation's face, but more realistically human.

Tuesday is the same but with a glowing red nose.

In my head, the number eight is a warrior, a leader of all the evens,

battling the evil odds.

What would I find


your head?

Do you photographically recall pictures of the world?

Do songs remind you of dance motions?

Is the color aquamarine as pretty for you as for me?

Can you recall song melodies clearly, shift them up and down keys?

Can you memorize math in cramped margin maps?

Is the color red just okay sometimes?

What in the world is it like

for things to be easier with your right hand, not your left?

(come, sit with this feeling,

stretch the limits of your own mind

and imagine living in someone else's.)

If I could unfold my mind

like a flower,

stretch with pollen scents

to attract the stray bee-thoughts

of another's hive mind,

how would I comprehend the world that they see?

A noseless-Saturday,

a green sweeter than aquamarine,

movement a little skewed to the right?

Thoughts don't have edges the way objects do.

These things that I think live inside of my skin,

a multitude of colors and dances inking page thin--

But if I could reach across skins and know the minds of the foreign,

what bee thoughts would I then comprehend?