#165 – Woman Ninety Two


She didn’t plant a garden and struggled to reconcile this decision made by time.

She forgot to tuck a tiny tomato plant into the chunky dry earth

or randomly drop tiny kale and eggplant seeds along the narrow plot of arid dirt.

There hadn’t been a thought about the garden until the jalapeño plant, that just weeks ago

appeared lifeless from neglect, doubled in size and produced nine shiny dark green peppers.

#162 – Woman Eighty Nine


Her voice broke easily.

Sound cracked,
seeped out in
clicks and clacks
jig sawing
any true syllable that
otherwise could have
a thought.

Thick tears rolled off her
red skin and
pierced the surface of
the caramel colored coffee in
her cup,
the sweet liquid.

She drank up the warmth,
pushed the broken bits
of language back
down her throat.


#161 – Woman Eighty Eight


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.

#159 – Woman Eighty Six


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


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