since she flew down
south. I haven't heard anything
from her that was word
of mouth. I look at her pictures,

still frames of her youth. I dabble
in the reverie afternoons drinking
vermouth. She'd flitter and flutter
flower to flower, flapping wings

in an early evening shower. When
the grass wore its coat of gleaming
white was the day she took her first
flight. I thought she'd be back

to hear the bluebird sing and
see the cherry trees blooming
in the spring. But as the days melted
into years, it didn't wash away a single

drop of my tears. So, memories I'll
frame. Hanging them on my walls,
they all look the same. I cannot hear
her chirping over my morning cup of

coffee, or see her nest flossy
in the trees. Like the autumn leaves
she blew away. And after she left
the cornflower skies turned a silver grey.

because she carries
the weight of the world
on her little shoulder. As she
grew older it only doubled. So,

she built herself a bubble
and lives inside of it. It's
round and the walls are
made of chocolate. No floor

or ceiling is there. No couch
or armchair. She's suspended
in the air. Here she dabbles
and she doodles. She eats

buttered noodles. She drinks
pansies and peppermint. And flings
her lines to print. She never did
marry. No one wanted Carrie.

blowing on their tufted
tops, floating in the air
like parachutes. Planting
their seeds to fruit. There's no

limit how far they travel. All
these mysteries in time
unravel. Cottonwood
fluff riding the

wind. Their fine down hairs
coating plants and spider
webs. Like a blanket of snow
they spread throughout

the river park in a glow of
white after dark. It only takes
one gritty seed to make it
to a tree.

like a fitted cotton sheet
tucked inside the hall closet,
stacked neat on the
bottom with the pillow

cases. She spread out
like a butterfly emerging
from her chrysalis and flew
off into the distance. I watched

her airborne. And I stood forlorn
at how she unfolded. I liked her
tight and molded when I had her
in my hand. But she had her

plans. I was rooted to
my yard like the big oak tree,
stripped of leaves in winter,
with bark splintered. She

unfolded like a picnic blanket on
a sunny day. People gathered
to eat and drink and celebrate. And I
was not invited. I sat nil and slighted.

skate on a crystal thinning
silver lakes. Swinging down
on rose vines they throw out
rhymes in a parade

to be seen. Pasting it
like paper dolls in these rooms
that have not walls, some call
a magazine. Till the weeks

scream not in words
but freshly painted silences
dropping down in bombs
of red. There fly pieces

of a dream. It's raining shards
of thank you nots. And like tots
wobble to the next room for
a shot with bruises on their egos

and knees. Waiting to please
men coloring with pen in the lines. Dotting
their eyes with white cotton, they'll not
be sought in this edition.

is a smile
was an upside down
frown. His eyes blue as
the ocean. But inside them

I drown. Drawn like a bee
to his lavender colors
and gold. But as I grew close,
like the night he turned

cold. He stung me after
feeding me honey. We met
on a day it was breezy and
sunny. But grey clouds

trumpeted like elephants
in the bush. What I thought
was kinship turned
into an ambush.

and polished it with
lace. I placed it on my mantel,
above the hearth, next to
the candles. It sat there

looking at me. So, I asked it
for a cup of tea. We laughed and
we wept. I slept if off that night
high as the luminescent

streetlight. But it swelled up
like a bee sting the next morning. I iced it
with a drink I fixed in my kitchen
sink of ***** and olive brine. Then I

penned this line by line, staring
at the cracks I spackled with juniper
and rose hips from the garden. This time,
hardened in a tortoise shell next to the candles.