To remember who she is inside the story: a gold initial. Outside the story, she is outer space. Inside, six
things are sad, including lakes. She finds it trying, this being made from words’ slip and chafe.
Story’s the only place besides the moon whereby an honest silence. She wraps her arms around her knees,
rocks side to side.
Day a space we haul our bodies into, not some place we pull inside our minds. Tug at our sleeves until we
leave ourselves to enter. What what. What: she is half reverie, half monster. And hums just fine.
Other sadnesses are lungs, boats with one oar, heartsick birds, wrong maps, and matted fur. Like from a
falling house: girlhood a slow phantasm? A damp field?
Outside the story, we clear the firescale. Inside, she gives her best branch to a dog named Max. Sometimes
when it rains, she rubs off on gentlemen.
By “cold light of day,” a boy slides a paper: Don’t worry: across his desk. That the universe should come to
this. Out the window, houses reiterate, though one is pink. When the living die, their living place their
goods on tables and open up their house: a sale: a pearly knife. Some teeth. A ball of twine, which is an old
man thing. Rattling in mason jars, metal parts belonging to objects that no longer exist.