Mar 262014
 

Brit Graham

 

We follow, unaware of

the things born to us, luck,

comets, pocket lint.

We wash our straw-stick

hair and note we’ve not

shed as enthusiastically of

late and white sheets remain

white. A glass sits atop the

nightstand, water beads up and

slides down the glass. A white

plastic stick births two pink

lines, pink as the fresh moon,

the curling limbs of starfish,

unfurling like a blushing hand,

tulip lips. Understanding, as all women

do, we are late, our fingers click like

razors, clawing for keys, and madly we

 

scrape along the bleached red

doors of the Honda. We stare

at clocks, dashboards, watches,

because we’re late, falling

down the rabbit hole, a black heel

caught in spongy earth, breaking

through the bed of tulips. The soil

stuck, crumbling into heels,

creased between toes. In order to

undo what we have done, we must

leave black footprints on the pale rose

linoleum. We cut our hands, fill them

with crushed petals and starfish arms,

chips of the good china and dirt. The

lines dissolve in reverse, a fun house

mirror trick, unveiling intent and purpose

beyond what we thought we

 Posted by at 9:50 pm