“Language is how ghosts enter the world”
— Anne Micheals
Curiosity steeps her in inquisitive tea, questions like burrs or the way the flesh of a cling peach won’t release the pit. She knows: it’s her love affair with the meaning of begin but flesh must starve if seed remain swathed.
Baroque night music, her dreams topple the monument as it hoards leftover light. She says, “Tear down the temple, flush away form.” Map unwrites itself, ID card tears, heaps of furniture, peace signs.
Darkness escapes the cul-de-sac, heals her bruised ego. She dresses in Grandma’s brocade curtains, plunges from the diving rope, listening for accordions that swim her over rapids, Father fixed into a swing.
Read more »