These are the things they don’t tell us.– Girl Du Jour, from Notes on Uvalde I’m floating up, out of the operating room ceiling, through walls, the roof of the hospital, and into the night sky. Drowsy in the black expanse, I feel warm in a giant palm that closes around my nakedness. My hospital…
Category: prosery
dVerse — Prosery — May Day Knocks
For how can I be sure I shall see again The world on the first of May –From “May Day” by Sara Teasdale I’ve fallen on black days. My ears are deaf to birdsong; nose unmoved by the scent of hyacinth; the soft crush of early strawberries between my molars untasted. Mid-Spring breezes skim over…
dVerse — Prosery — December May Yet…
Talk what you please of future spring and sun-warm’d sweet tomorrow. –Christina Rossetti, from Daughter of Eve Bell is working her way towards upper management. Armand is an exchange student beginning a summer internship. As Bell speaks fluent Spanish she’s been asked to mentor him. Even though she, forty years old, is twice Armand’s age,…
dVerse — Prosery — The magic of rain
I wandered lonely as a cloud. –by William Wordsworth, from his eponymous poem Seeing a cumulus puff amongst cirrocumulus sheets made the mountain dragon laugh. “You’re an anachronism!” Try as I might to slough off the words, his throaty grumbles clung like heavy ice crystals. They turned my cushiony cotton into spiked crackles which shredded…
dVerse — Prosery — Visitor
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper from, “Valentine,” by Carol Ann Duffy The small, square window’s bars are iron grey. Much of the time I’m a thin lump hunkered on a concrete slab, sandwiched between straw mattress and cotton feather tick. Only my capped head, bright eyes, and red nose are visible. Even…
dVerse — Prosery — Honey Sun Honeymoon
And bring no book, for this one day We’ll give to idleness. –from William Wordsworth’s, ‘Lines Written at a small distance from my House… Day 2: A drapery whoosh woke me from a flying dream. Bathed in burnished gold light, I stretched, cat-like. Inhaling deeply, my nostrils quivered with the aroma of fresh coffee from…
dVerse — Prosery — Bad Girls
I dress in their stories patterned and purple as night–from “When We Sing of Might,” by Kimberly Blaeser I pick one up at the runaway shelter. Another from her granny’s house. One from court-approved fictive kin’s house. The one picked up from the detention center is pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Wednesday is…
Tao-Talk 