This is madness she says & we should go camping in it. He traces the outline of her bra strap as if it were a map. Let’s go anywhere lonely & suffering & green, which is a simple coordinate for her & he knows it. He knows she’s never loved anything this red before. Not the red inside always mistaking itself for white, but a harvest she circles her teeth around. There is no white or wrong. Not in this nonsense. He is just a jungle cat slinking through the curtains saying How about we take out a mortgage & sleep in the same room for the rest of our lives. To which she’s only a ball of yarn that moans January January January.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 1.
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