Pillow Dammed
//Hearth borne agnosticism built like mountains from the rubble of
collapsed childhood faiths. All in front of that fire she shoulders off the
strap of her slip and feels the licks of heat like a lion’s hot tongue before
it begins to gnaw.
Constantly on the edge of herself, she holds a horizon inside her that
bounces between the shortest distance of dawn and dusk, and asks why
she often feels lost and tired.
The couch talks with a slow drawl, half slurred with a wide flat smile.
She curls into a teacup like a rock’n’roll Tinkerbelle and makes perfumed
notes with a sweetness of breath.
A sunrise peers out through the breaks in her armour, accompanied by
the awakening archipelagoes of the aviary outside, and her chaos seems
softer than the hotel pillows she builds a dam from in the cracks of night
before sleep. Protective hills from morning light, she swims in her own
self between the dam’s lips. She, a light herself, a fervent whale-oil flame
in blue-hued glass, and her melancholia a scarf she wraps around the
neck of her life. //