Follow the rubbery rainbows to the rambunctious roses. In the garden, my psyche sprints naked through the greenery. She’s too frightened to be embarrassed. In a cul de sac, a hunter of women with a skeleton in the trunk of his metallic black Dodge Dart. She is barely evading him, and he has more stamina. I turn to tending the roses, especially the pink ones. Then the neighborhood goes dark with a blackness so heavy it falls in flakes like snow, burning and refining my body.

Shackled sunbeams destined to die on the parched plains of our existence gasp a little just before they hit the ground. The sound is audible only to angels. I am an artificial light drooling over candles. My light is dusty, a little rose gold, disheveled. My God, God of pink peonies and purple pansies, strapped the ageless bulb to my heart. My heart beats because it is afraid not to. In the dark, Death holds a child’s hand.