Going Gypsy

Going Gypsy

She left her husband and the house: going gypsy.

Nomadic soul, she comes to tell me she's caravaning

pow wows, stringing a blood connection that should

have happened before. Merchanting her jewelry,

weavings. I imagine her fire-dancing with her glasses

lost in the camper to be found or not in the morning,

she in draped deer skins or earth-hued blankets.

She never mentioned him. I didn't know she was

married. She takes my email, promises to blog her days,

her travels, her epiphanies--New Mexico, the lure of

West, so many places to belong, so much new dust

to hold, a birthright that passed her, her retirement drained

to buy the fifth-wheel that takes her, four rainbows woven

into the blankets over her and the chanting man from last

night's fire-dancing. She clips a strand of his hair

to weave into her next blanket. The caregiver has

pushed off her caravan, moved to give the next care,

a string of fires like baubles on the necklaces she sells

wary tourists. She makes no mention of what lies

her children tell their friends. Their mother has gone gypsy--

sends them photos of that same woman being absorbed

into the sun & sun spits her back to the flames, stamps

her down like a foot around a fire-circle. We all seek our

tribe and pursue an explosion of sunsets eventually.

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First appeared at Poppy Road Review