Mourning I went out into the mud and rain to watch stalled horses, nervous and full of heat, neigh and kick at thunder until the storm passed, and the ghost was given.
Sometimes I pretend there was moonlight, ample. That your body was lit bright. That my eyes closed with no other choice. On other nights, I remember that it was dark. That there were no streetlights. That the stars, smothered by the clouds, could not see us, and all we had was touch.
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.
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.
There was a quiet hymn in the cars that passed on the street below the second story balcony. She stood in a summer dress that made him remember peacocks at the zoo his mom had taken him to when he was seven. He had forgotten about the zoo. In fact, it seemed to him that …
The shells I collected last summer kept their promise; the wind has waited all these months. I listen. Smile and hue return.
Tonight, I crave chocolate cake. when yesterday I had forgotten there was sugar and cocoa and bakers who know what to do.