In the glistening tide pools, an octopus polls his neighbors about the upcoming tide. “For or against?” he asks. The tide comes regardless and the octopus pulsates purple with anonymity. In the glossy horror of the sea, ghosts bathe in hot vents with life forms the living will never sea. The tide does not care for the fish.
Sooty clouds leak a fine dust that turns into sliding beds of black silt along the murmuring rivers of my mind. Rowing in one river is my husband, setting sail along the shores of my body, stopping in the inlets and the dive bars that are my eyes. In the next river, a poem sunbathes with a rubber ducky, drinking cough syrup. I always have loved the flavor of cough syrup and the slick scent of dry erase markers. On another riverbank, little Lisa penning novels in gingham dresses. The novels are in gingham. Lisa is in a shroud of loss. My memories ride rough shod over the rough volcanic landscape of my consciousness, periodically plummeting to their deaths in unseen lava tubes.
Miniature Moon 