Awake on the flip side,
street lights block the stars, and I can
only imagine the seven sisters
descending. The moon’s lost
behind somebody’s roof.
the ice maker, a car
on the street, the whoosh of furnace
on then off. A monk bending over a flower,
sees crucifixion, sacrifice,
names it passion, passiflora.
Christ. A woman should have the right
to choose her own fetters,
black nylons and a whip. Wet them,
she says on late-night TV, the ropes.
They’ll shrink as they dry, bind even
tighter. And here, a gag—
but he’s gone, her young lover,
disappeared off screen,
her door left standing ajar. Monster,
his parting shot. It’s a sign
of winter, the setting of the Pleiades, passion
flower extract in a glass.
A gentle remedy, the bottle says, to help
with sleep. I swallow drop after bitter drop.
Not a hair stirs,
the beast already nodding off.
Holding For the Farrier
Mrs. Cannon Passes the Parthenon on Her Way Home from Work
Introductions Reading Loop
Tracking the Muse: Guns, Tea, and Eating Chicken
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