Shrimp-colored gladiolas. Butchers’ knives. Bodies displayed in sitting rooms.
The strange light of winter spoke in a dialect of dark— extended vowels that rambled on like a highway in New Mexico— threatening to keep the flowers.
She had, for years, wanted to walk up to strangers and offer a kidney or her blood. “O negative. Universal,” she wanted to tell them.
Juggling and cooking.
I’ve been remembering and forgetting all day. Today would have been my father’s 62nd birthday. There aren’t words for that. There’s just the rain and a memory of how he would have us sit on the roof and watch lightning storms in the distance.
I’m reading aloud tonight. For some reason that appears to mean I have nothing to say here.
Skin lurid and out of sequence, seldom do these intervals lift the dawn close enough that I don’t need to squint, but this morning I am wide-eyed and there is a quality of light, gypsy and unfolding. I wait for it to find your body, mute.