Andromeda, the chained woman, screams to the heavens.
Slowly and with much bodily protest, Eleanore stooped to pick up the silver cufflinks, turning them in her palm. They had been a gift to her first husband.
As her eyes opened, the crows landed around her in a circle. They laid for her nuts and seeds and then, hopping, the murder of crows led her back to her home, now barren.
She squats and unzips it. That is when I tumble out. Unkempt. My imperfect self. She crawls in, the perfect me, the one I save to show the world.
His arm cradled my back, the rough of his chin pressed against my temple. The tango was slow, my feet tracing the wood as this man moved me.
I was dozing when she knocked on my door. The sun had long set, and I should have been looking into my dreams, but I was waiting for her.
A white van with the logo on the side, three orange circles stacked inside each other; the child, the mother, and the Community.
The Flame, duality of love and fire. Two poems. The first flame, poem on our lovers. The last flame, one of fire and change. Life in a dreamscape of passion.
The Hitchhiker. I see a woman standing at the crossroads of the country road, her thumb sticking out. Her hair is long and dark and straight; like mine.
“Drink the Kool-Aid,” says dad. “Drink the Kool-Aid,” said mom. I hear the sirens headed our way. “They don’t know it was us,” I say.