The way wind breaks through squares
in screens, how the glass drains
itself left alone,
bluebells lean into the brick path. There,
she is there. Awaits your eyes.
the spirits step lightly,
press shadows on carpet, sweep
through plates of full fruit. Smoke
swirl caress when she nears.
She holds you between pillowcase palms,
pulls blankets—just right.
she watches you cry. The body
of her curves in your tears.
Read more from Issue No. 18 or share on Facebook and Twitter.