Some days are an empty bolt, flat and brown, and everything’s unfurled. If you stand out on the balcony, the wings of pigeons will tip you. My own tux is thick as I hear pets mating upstairs.
Today has small fingers. Today looks German and rich, his lips are hot with peppers and tart with lime, and I’m scared as he runs his silk over me. I heard the muskrats shuffling at the zoo when I was young. They ate grasshoppers and leaves and licked their paws clean.
I don’t know who I resemble now, insides cool as sherbet. I like strawberry rhubarb pie best. I hate apples. So, today takes them, a huge plastic bag from the kitchen counter: the open doors and lilies like a sanctuary, my fingernails etching phrases into my arms. The wind rushes over me, crisp as oregano. Hear it enclose me.
