She sits at the wide paned-window. Her nose is reddening, pressed against the icy glass, and her own warm breath escapes from her mouth, only to return the same dampness back onto her already clammy cheeks. Except for an occasional shiver, she sits unmoving. In the silence of that empty room, each tick of the clock rings sharp and strong. They hang in the air for a brief moment before they dissipate, and she thinks absentmindedly that there is no such thing as “tick” or “tock

Morning falls on sore limbs like dust I ’m afraid.  I’ll be tired for years,  hollowed by losing the weight of you. Learning to live without hands, like dogs that run laps over the mountains of my shoulders, peeling back scalps, nail beds, and backs, digging in our heels at the thief of time. The southernmost window creaks shut.  Glassy eyes blink away teardrops; rain drops spit silly, making paintings  on the creamy white canvas of my neck.  Wet skin on wet skin piled vertic

The first memory I ever captured was of a baby swaddled in a pink blanket—dried tears staining her little cheeks. The baby was held to a woman’s chest. The woman gave me a tired smile and tilted the baby towards me. With a click, the memory was captured in my mind. I was placed down, but I could still hear the new parents cooing quietly. I cradled the new memory and held it close within my being. I hoped they would give me more.  The baby was cradled against the father's che

Brown and rotting, worn out and old, the boat that sits on the shore. No one touches it. Everyone admires it. There is no rope, keeping people from climbing. There is no plaque to tell the story. It is just known. That’s why it’s sacred. Brown and rotting, worn out and old, pieces of gold still stuck in the sail. A stench minded by many. There is no rope, keeping people from climbing. There is no plaque to tell the story. It is just known. That’s why it’s sacred. Brown, old,

I don’t care for golden Hermes  aloft, adept with  glory, gifts  rising tall with sculpted confidence from an etched pedestal Rather, I like to see the water  streaming endlessly along polished bottom sphere and drip in scattered ribbons from the waterworn ledge I like to watch the droplets  plunge with clumsy grace into waiting pond below then leap back up as molten tentacles  the concentric ripples always flowing  lapping  disappearing as if they know how  significant  thei