#112 – Woman Thirty Nine


Unsettled, she moves through every room with swiftness.

Her eyes dart around each space which stimulates new thoughts before the previous ones have completed. Her gestures, as spontaneous as her thinking, alter her body into angular shapes that morph without clean transitions.

She is sharp like a jangled sound.

She walks to the desk, the bureau, the kitchen table. At each juncture she must pause to recollect why she is standing there.  To find a paper? Fold the laundry? Clean the dishes?

What she set out to do moments prior is lost so she keeps moving in this stuttered state of being.

For a day, she starts and stops and starts again until at twilight, she gives herself permission to get in her bed, start anew tomorrow.


#111 – Woman Thirty Eight


“She’d never had a more precise and strange notion of two places existing at the same time, of one same hour unfolding all over the world, and the instantaneous feeling brought her closer than ever before to everything she didn’t know.

How I know how to make things up all the way to the end – she was leading herself through an unwitting stubbornness to a point where in fact she was reaching whatever she’d wanted and yet couldn’t stand the thing she herself had created.”


The Chandelier, Clarice Lispector

#110 – Woman Thirty Seven


Her lips and her nails are the same bright red as her stilettos –

adorned with rhinestones and chain encircling each

delicate ankle.


Her long red hair is closer to rust. It is dull, matted  –

angry at suffering a lifetime of neglect and abuse.


Repeatedly, nervously, her hand lifts the stemless glass to

her crimson lips. She gulps ice water as if her life depends on it.
Across the table
he sips liquid that is the same faded orange as her hair,
from a crystal tumbler.
He is decades older, a businessman, in a dark grey suit
and salmon colored tie.

Her face holds a sad beauty.
She is not young. She is not old.

He stands to emphasize a point in his story.

She moves her fingertip across the surface of her phone,
smiles and shows him a photograph.

They laugh together.

#109 – Woman Thirty Six


Seated at the heavy wooden table inside the house
in the woods, she had already stopped bleeding.
She wrapped the last piece of golden wire around
the smooth silver cone of the miniature pliers.

It had to be the last
because she could no longer see.

a woman violently heaved dishes
towards her husband,
screaming in sadness and

It had to be the last
because her body could not conceive
a child.

Glass and ceramic hit the walls,
shattered across the floor
made splintering sounds
that threatened to
pierce the ceiling
and rain down
on her
at the table.

#106 – Woman Thirty Three


She is a bifurcated blur.

Part silent, part speed.


The split is

not torso cut from legs,

but a symmetrical divide,

left bone and right bone.


The design has cracked,

like the exoskeleton

of an old cockroach.


It tips,

it foams,

it drops open.


She’s a secret,
in her flowered dress,
witness to

the furnace,

the wardrobe

the yellow room
collapsing in slow motion.

#103 – Woman Thirty


There is a five-car collision inside her body.
Swollen, lacerated, acid.

She lies across her bed in the middle of the day,
watches a rogue cloud wander into view.
It breaks up quickly, quirky, then vanishes behind the
open architecture
of the room.

The wreck is being cleared.
Pooled blood is soaked up.
Her swelling subsides, but she
is still pierced.

She is driving on the freeway towards
the ocean watching the sky become an opal.
Three planes emit white trails,
shape a loose triangle.

Shooting stars.
She makes a wish.