i
When the birch trees slough
their shells in the night, it is
quietly, and it is without me.
Tucked behind my eyelids,
I’m a cyclone, earthbound,
only to have dried out
by morning: starved of
moonlight, parched for water.
As soon as I look down,
there are itsy-bitsy spider
carcasses under my tiptoes,
crunching like gravel.
ii
In the bathtub my ankles swell.
Tendrils of purple ink coil
around my lungs like curlicue
calligraphy, and yank me
into the undertow. I had
forgotten the bitter taste of
suicide, like molding
potatoes. Static static static
in my ears, until the splitting
bang of a cymbal, falling
from a steep cliff; stiffened
daylight crushes my eyes.
