rumbleHUM

I. The four parts of my heart thrum a rhythm against the sheath of ice, gripping their cavities, and, in concert, slide through the space where the rib I gave you used to be, leaving a ticklish sensation as they squeeze through. They abandon a residue  of slow sadness and frenetic anxiousness in the emptiness.  II. My brain. A haze presses upon its folds, exhausts the optic nerve, leaves a rawness behind my eyelids, leaves a soreness where the sclera meets the skull, and draws the eyes wide and weepy, dispatches pieces of static across my scalp and out the hair follicles. III. My limbs, like heavy branches grasp, fumble with  the fruits of your sorrow, weighted by a frigid numbness. Gravity drags on weakened joints, until the connective tissue snap, riving arteries and veins, disengaging bone from bone, permitting my arms and legs to disown the thickness of my trunk. IV. I am no longer a whol...

I. She is like the moon pacing the nights in phases, starting empty, invisible, incomplete, or nealy so, more like a shadow, the left over smudge from something written     rubbed out by a cheap pencil eraser, or the darkness created when something large, like a boulder, stands in front of a light source; and then, slowly, being filled each night, a bowl, pale white, ghost-like, cracked through misuse, and set aside, outside to collect rainwater and the morning dew, until it is filled                                                          with                   ...