#161 – Woman Eighty Eight

hole

She lost her mind.

If the story was rewound

might she see where it had

fallen away,

been left behind,

temporarily misplaced?

 

If she held the film up to the light,

carefully scrutinized each frame,

could she perceive the past?

 

detect the nebulous shapes,

the semi-transparency,

the indescribable colors.

 

Or in another version,

it was obscured,

brittle, deteriorated,

never to be looped again.

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#159 – Woman Eighty Six

burn

She coughs up a sentence,

chokes out the description that’s

been bubbling in her throat lately.

 

Low, it remains inside her breath –

a story she’s telling herself

as if it were not her own.

She moves through the city in dim light,

murmuring her tale.

 

Shadows play tricks.  Are those hisses?

She sees animals and bodies in the distance.

 

Once close, it is a wrinkled coat splayed in the road.

A scrap of wet carboard is still.

 

She moves quickly through the dark blue night.

A whisper.

#157 – Woman Eighty Four

pinkhanger

She authors the account from the inside of her body.

Characters inscribed along a fleshy pink fold

are indecipherable in form and understanding.

 

This language echoing through organs

and blood, mucous and veins is nonetheless

fierce and strong.

 

It pulses an inescapable history,

a rhythmic song that is alive.

 

The interior of all her bodies,

translated, spoken

and silenced

over all

time.

#156 – Woman Eighty Three

rear view

More than four hundred days have passed.
And she remains seated, as if on a throne,
at Washington and Western.

Positioned regally,
with legs crossed,
she is at the center opening of a
blue and grey tent.

Zipped into her plastic refuge
that protected from a cold wet
winter, it will soon,
defend against summer heat.

This shelter that shields her
conveniently conceals her
from the city which has forgotten
she exists.

 

 

 

#153 – Woman Eighty

rose

The spectacle of fleshy petals set her dizzy.

Each overlapping lavender fold threatened an

impossible yet terrifying trauma.

 

Beads of sweat marked the edge of her lip

like the thorns dotting each stem.

 

She swooned when a light breeze sent rich fragrance

swirling up her nostrils, rolling down her throat.

Choking on a sweet perfume,

she trembled on the garden ground.

 

Anthophobia

#152 – Woman Seventy Nine

EYES2

She furrows her brow in disapproval, creasing lines already carved into her forehead.

In violet satin, she surveys the room without lifting her eyes.  At the front of her head sits a bulge of hair, most likely a rat inside to hold the auburn tresses in shape.

She dares not look up for fear of catching the eye of a stranger in the bustling room.

Holding steadfast to the task, her gaze remains turned down while her pink nose twitches towards a messy stack of papers.  Each page is filled with columns of penciled-in names which she violently crosses out.

Time is up when she feels a curious stare examining her legs, her body, then moving up to observe her lumpy hair.  Panic, as this pair of eyes hunt to meet her own.

With dread, she swivels her torso and scurries to the corner.

Ommetaphobia