Polychromatic blood leaks from the slits in my ankles. In another world I plant a garden of cosmos. In another universe I lay across my lover’s piano lasciviously. But in this world, my essence spurts out with the pressure of my body weight. Why did I carve windows to sinew and bone? In my ear, curled up and sleeping, my daughter dreams of some sort of purple peace I don’t understand. My love bandages me with magnolia petals, calling my windows “wounds.”
Day: July 29, 2026
Poem
This isn’t a poem. The white birds skim the gray lake for silver fish. In all the newspapers, headlines about the pianos crowding us out. Music will carve a hole into my head and scurry into my brain furtively. After all, silence is the top predator here, and he lurks everywhere. I slip on a red silk nightgown and dance to the rhythm of the implacable rain.
Light’s Soiree
Thin, blue line of pain
Like flame,
Dancing.
What we have is a house of
Unrequited fury.
What we have is a box with two air holes.
What we have is a magician’s playing cards.
Cascading grief rinses me. Time has been crabwalking away from me drunkenly for decades.
My invitation to Light’s soiree was lost in the mail.
Miniature Moon 