Brit Graham
We follow, unaware of
the things born to us, luck,
comets, pocket lint.
We wash our straw-stick
hair and note we’ve not
shed as enthusiastically of
late and white sheets remain
white. A glass sits atop the
nightstand, water beads up and
slides down the glass. A white
plastic stick births two pink
lines, pink as the fresh moon,
the curling limbs of starfish,
unfurling like a blushing hand,
tulip lips. Understanding, as all women
do, we are late, our fingers click like
razors, clawing for keys, and madly we
scrape along the bleached red
doors of the Honda. We stare
at clocks, dashboards, watches,
because we’re late, falling
down the rabbit hole, a black heel
caught in spongy earth, breaking
through the bed of tulips. The soil
stuck, crumbling into heels,
creased between toes. In order to
undo what we have done, we must
leave black footprints on the pale rose
linoleum. We cut our hands, fill them
with crushed petals and starfish arms,
chips of the good china and dirt. The
lines dissolve in reverse, a fun house
mirror trick, unveiling intent and purpose
beyond what we thought we