published in Don’t Submit
Quiescent upon an altar of glass,
beneath a pyramid skylight, she drafts
a morass from whatever goes past —
light twinkling from constellations, air craft, swallows, pigeons who play overhead this
deconstructed girl, her precarious
bed. Head fertile with intrigues, each a wish
for how she might live, flesh Stradivarius
opened rough until it is a sieve. Lives
in these narratives, all memorized,
she whispers when abandonment gives
permission to at least close her wet eyes.
Holds on to each tale like a place she has been
before this room where no one offers a pen.