four

DIAGNOSTICS

The moments when the wind picks up the traces of things

the weight places upon my face
set behind my eyes

twenty-eight flat, black, polished skipping stones
passing by the malar bone
falling to the sides

Eyelashes touch upon fingertips
as bristles of a hairbrush
that was once used to smooth down
your shiny black coat

Wait in a queue to be sent back
to the room filled with settings, schedules
and uncertainty

I mourn what hadn’t been lost

WOLFGANG

Stirring my lips, the opposite direction
of your hair growth upon your head
soothing me

you are the smell of eucalyptus and winter

humming the Nightingales ode
my fingers dancing on top of yours
while you sleep

Linea nigra from top to bottom
fades away as you grow
in my arms

GOLD FINCH

Temporary life
looking at your eye through the opening of the
curtains that cover
the slatted blinds

Top of an old red car
the flame is out but the wick still glows

GULF COAST WINTER

My husband has gone fishing. So I lay in bed with my child sleeping on my chest. Like a perfect
fit my cheek rests against his forehead. Connecting like two atoms fastened together by
electrons. The same way we were connected as embryo and womb, down the umbilical cord,
spiraling life into his existence. Cut by our other half to detach physically from me to attach
physically to others. The white noise machine recycles the sounds of calm ocean waves, in which
I took comfort thinking it was familiar cold artic winds.