Sometimes Her Tracks Are Dim

One night, as Jupiter sank sadly behind the teal houses, a woman tried to swim up-river. Knowledge of the entire town was reflected in the eddying water, as sparkling concentric circles grew and disappeared into the landscape. Later on, the doorbell rang, giving the furniture goosebumps. The roof stood mute and hung low, while the stairs swayed left to right.  

And then 

I had a dream that my mother 

Squeezed her soul out of her little finger, 

And let it fill a thin glass vessel— 

And then we slept by the lip of her grave 

Which was still just a mound of dirt. 

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In my dream there was a moth. And behind the threshold I could see my mother’s face. The moth fluttered nervously around her, landing every so often beside her profile, her dusty companion. She began to read words I had written from behind a freshly ironed white sheet while I lit lamps in desperation, willing the moths to come into the house. I could feel the flutter of their wings, but they remained invisible and elusive. I begged them to come, reciting dusty incantations in my mind. Light burst out from every orifice in the house, projecting a warm glow in every direction.  

But the moths stayed away and— 

the house seemed to float alone in the cosmos.