She carries secrets deep in her chest, braids maps into her hair. Her sleep yells.
Something about a kitchen. When the sun rises, he finds
her dresses flapping on branches, stitched with carrots. He smokes
the air, inhales questions through his teeth.
There is a wilting face, a snow falling voice.
He breaks earth to plant years, washes confusion from his fingers.
Still she weeps. Her heart shakes all summer, cradling
small seeds and spraining weeds.
Now the back of her dresses shed dirt, her palms home for
petals. Rain cuts the ground to streamers and
the sky coughs up gray as they hang pebbles out to dry. The
sun, clattering. The strings she plucks like a harp.
In the backyard they tack maps onto the fence, chart their
dreams with blue ink. Bleeding, snaking rivers through rows of seeds.
Two weeks later, the tips of the carrots are blue and he runs laps between
the shoots. The hanging maps rain white ash and she forgets forests.
Sunday, she gives him white stones for a cup of
moon. The stars, smooth and gray. The sky,
rumpled into the trees. Across the galaxy, they
flicker and she paints Orion onto Russia with watercolors,
what does it mean? His question a pit.
Like a nymph, she slips into trees holding the earth down
with all their might. Her friends are wolves. Her feet
are bare. In the yellow kitchen, he watches the light shatter on, off.
She twists the diamond on her finger and chokes on stones. In the
morning, her smile petrifies.
Sun crumbles on her pillow, burning the
edges where she used to sleep. On his back is a tattoo
saying, I love you in Greek. He cranes his neck
to read what's written in green and his shoulders are
leaves, bending. The bathroom smells sour from dye.
She leaves a ball of yarn by his shoes,
unraveling, and a photograph. I just remembered,
I hate carrots. Her hair is blue. Someday she will learn to tie.
A lightning storm slices the air black. Hail, he thinks.
Later, he watches the pebbles slip out of their string
wings. When she comes in the morning to gather her
dresses, the ground is taped shut.
Something about a kitchen. When the sun rises, he finds
her dresses flapping on branches, stitched with carrots. He smokes
the air, inhales questions through his teeth.
There is a wilting face, a snow falling voice.
He breaks earth to plant years, washes confusion from his fingers.
Still she weeps. Her heart shakes all summer, cradling
small seeds and spraining weeds.
Now the back of her dresses shed dirt, her palms home for
petals. Rain cuts the ground to streamers and
the sky coughs up gray as they hang pebbles out to dry. The
sun, clattering. The strings she plucks like a harp.
In the backyard they tack maps onto the fence, chart their
dreams with blue ink. Bleeding, snaking rivers through rows of seeds.
Two weeks later, the tips of the carrots are blue and he runs laps between
the shoots. The hanging maps rain white ash and she forgets forests.
Sunday, she gives him white stones for a cup of
moon. The stars, smooth and gray. The sky,
rumpled into the trees. Across the galaxy, they
flicker and she paints Orion onto Russia with watercolors,
what does it mean? His question a pit.
Like a nymph, she slips into trees holding the earth down
with all their might. Her friends are wolves. Her feet
are bare. In the yellow kitchen, he watches the light shatter on, off.
She twists the diamond on her finger and chokes on stones. In the
morning, her smile petrifies.
Sun crumbles on her pillow, burning the
edges where she used to sleep. On his back is a tattoo
saying, I love you in Greek. He cranes his neck
to read what's written in green and his shoulders are
leaves, bending. The bathroom smells sour from dye.
She leaves a ball of yarn by his shoes,
unraveling, and a photograph. I just remembered,
I hate carrots. Her hair is blue. Someday she will learn to tie.
A lightning storm slices the air black. Hail, he thinks.
Later, he watches the pebbles slip out of their string
wings. When she comes in the morning to gather her
dresses, the ground is taped shut.
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