Alison Stone


Near windows, jaded students gaze toward freedom.
Watch what you yearn for. Can you afford freedom?

My teen vow – to be a queen of love,
a disciple of art, a ward of freedom.

Starving farmers enslaved by dry earth.
Finally, clouds gathered. Poured freedom.

Tended to with thick gloves, the broken bat
mended. Wobbled, then soared. Freedom’s

just another word for nothing left to lose,
Janis knew. Others try to hoard freedom.

Why did Americans elect a
fascist? Were we bored with freedom?

Women, be like goddess sculptures – open
vulva for pleasure, raised sword for freedom.

Sour in the convict’s mouth. Tangy in
the immigrant’s. A fickle word, freedom.

Blues greats gave sorrow a tune. Rock gods wrote
lust into rhythm. Mozart scored freedom.

I try on names like scarves. Sweetheart, scapegoat,
Mom. Interpreter of dreams. Bard of freedom.


Ashes to Ashes

He kissed the crowd with stardust. Then he sang.
Limits wiped away like makeup when he sang.

Ten. Nine. Counting down to freedom. Deep space
waiting for our sparkle. Eight, seven he sang.

Shamed to silence for my off-key warble, when
the speakers shook with Diamond Dogs, even I sang.

His personas dulled, bled moonbeams. Every
time re-formed, again he rose. Again he sang.

Changed to dolphins by his wishing, we swam free
and desperate in the lost ocean he sang.

Queer, odd, lonely, alien – his skewed eyes
turned us numinous. Amen, we sang.

The news knocked us back to our teen names.
Look up here, I’m in heaven, he sang.