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
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.
She makes a wish.
Between two spindly fingers a woman holds a filament
attached to weighted scales.
(She feels an unbalance in the bottom of her belly.)
Out of spite and vengefulness, this woman could tip
in a certain direction.
Or she may hold still, defy her mean-spirited character,
and shift the scales
out of exhaustion,
a pause in her nature to fight
or a realization.
(Her guts are upside-down, inside-out.
She is at the mercy of a vindictive woman.)
she sifts through the wreckage,
uncovers an image of ruins.
She stares through the watery layers,
unable to separate the stories.
How did this time evaporate?
How much remains?
She wept hundreds of lavender tears.
They dripped heavily off of her wooden shoulders
which twisted tightly like all of her body.
Elegant, yet messy, she was dense and old.
Pale woody branches entwined at the center
lifted, coiled and cascaded into purple.
Filled with bees, her entire being hummed.
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.