Dream an envelope of earth, and fill it with blue morning glory seeds. Seeds need tenderness and a message of truth before they wake up. Weed a short section of childhood memory, plant bulbs that bloom in winter.
Practice burning faces into your brain like names on a leather purse. Feed a population of feral children. Identify and interview yourself. Terror informants want to know that rifleshot won’t follow their words.
Speech is a natural pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables. Where is the nearest natural running water? Relax the angry reflexes that protect you from pain.
Nurture beneficial insects. Dream an x-ray of world peace. Vow to return to live on Earth again, again, again.
Are there any qualities standard to liberation?
Each book on the syllabus.
How do I make rape bear fruit, little bear?
The brain that contains the problem also contains the solution.
We are in need of a worldwide Sabbath, a moment of absolute rest.
Good night, little one. Dream me a forest path, a basket.
My body—his body—missile silos—the sidewalk, the crop, the compost— Guantanamo Bay—the pesticide—faucet—wet mop—#10—the bees in the orchard—child’s hand—nobody’s suffering is singular— can I be my own harbor, yet hold refugees?
Create a moment without cacophony.
Lungs, the light. A breath?
From any cliff, you can extend a blessing.
Abe Louise Young was born in New Orleans, Louisiana. She holds an MFA from the University of Texas at Austin, where she was a James Michener Fellow in Creative Writing. Her award-winning poetry and essays are published widely, and she’s the editor of Hip Deep: Opinion, Essays, and Vision from American Teenagers.