From bed she hurled the spines downstream/
the pages cankered/
from the buckshot of her fingers/
The ossuary of warm colors/
not fully spent/
released to those who cast bones/
and divine the future/
Plucked petals of sky/
and sea/ and azure margins/
were her medium/
of mosaic language decoupage/
Mounds of torn blue breasts erupting at her hips/
like new volcanic islands/
breaking the tension for a moment/
She festooned them with recycled names/
Reckless/ Stormy Pearl/
Just Below Heaven/ Swatches/
of retired cornflower bathrooms/
identified/ She had become/
the Rosetta Stone/
naming each shade/
so she could offer herself to a friend’s embrace/
My calendar is pocked, branded. Squared
a hundred ways. Mmm ssing
Gridlines stamp steady lanes. Parameters.
Boxing my eyes up. And left and over
and. Then yesterday.
And with. The space of forward.
Marked by blood blue “Ms.” The silent
strangle of brain on paper.
Ms -taken bruise on Tuesday. Plotted.
Last week – forever?
Ms. the woman refusing
to blue the space with r. “M/s” map-over,
worked over lines.
Within the box
with blue convention in. My pillbox
is the shape of day.
My pillbox is a Russian doll. Nesting
neat on Tuesday.
No gridlines leaning on future.
Lorrie Ness grew up in rural Indiana and currently lives in Virginia. Writing is her means of connection and is her refuge. She draws inspiration for her writing through time out doors. She has forthcoming work in the American Journal of Poetry.