Another bird has disappeared.
He was the energy in a wave,
a sparkling pixel,
a ripe ruby cactus fruit.
Once floating in the salty sea,
then drowning in clear liquid.
He became out of focus.
Hoping he has strength to fly
safely to the
Awakened by the light of the half-moon
streaming in her window,
she sat up
and began to knit the other half.
While her hands and needles tapped through a rhythm,
she was tumbling with Chinese acrobats,
she was running over cobblestones with a container of gasoline,
or was it white wine?
she was wrapped tight in a cocoon,
she was unpacking decorations with strangers,
until the moon called her.
She has knit
a full moon.
She holds an uneven square of fabric stiffened by time and folded in on itself.
The material awkwardly unfurls, bearing stubborn creases that mark a long stillness.
A stitched line draws across a thick wide hem, follows the edge,
remembering when her form inhabited this yellowed cloth.
A black velvet belt suddenly drops from inside of the dress, falls to
the floor, and gestures like a startled snake.
She is an asymmetrical orchid.
Her four magenta buds bloom strong on the right and three of those are mirrored on her left.
A single queen flower dips down from the top to softly bend the noble spike.
She wears a deep emerald skirt and sits on display in front of a scarlet curtain.
Her long hair is a ladder, a portal and a twisted muscle.
Creamy matted tresses cease to reflect light and absorb all, like the ferocious spiral of cyclone.
Inside is a nest of baby birds and a pool of turquoise water, a pile of warm blankets, a cave drenched in echoes and a fireworks show.
Curls piled tall on top of her head are an infinite beehive stretching to the stars. This tangled tower of tresses collapses behind her and follows like the train on a decaying gown or a bird whose own extended tail erases her footsteps.
(This bird is from an elusive Anais Nin writing that I’ve been unable to locate again, for years.
Do you know it? )
She draws an extended breath, feels the cold mist sting as it fills to the top of her chest.
Her body embraces the inhale, warms the icy cloud inside of her.
Her exhale blooms soft white forms that crystallize into the shape of her mouth, her throat, her lungs.
For an instant, these hazy bodies hover in space, then evaporate into the winter landscape.
She is speaking in tongues.
A flapping echo of language, so fast that
her own glistening fang bites her soft lip,
again and again.
Laughter gurgles up and heightens into
a reverberating shriek of delight.
Her lipstick escapes the dry edges of a wicked smile.
She is a crimson smear.
She is treading water while stirring the pot and flowing like silk as she drowns in the pond.
She is towing the line and unraveling a thread as she walks a tightrope while spinning a yarn.
She is an earthquake, a carpet of moss, a dead bluebird, a hesitant line, an empty coat pocket, satin ribbons, a bloody knot, a loss for words.
She is a broken fingernail, a gasp of air, outdated technology, a peacock feather, one thousand rings from Paris, dirty snow.
She is a hula hoop, tarnished silver, a rabbit skin, a balancing act, a black circle, a glass of pink champagne.