prose poetry and fiction

dear johanna,

let me explain: your body is a candlestick,
a flickering thing.
you surge from low-grade panic, from flashbacks, from following the haloed faces of con-men straight into hell.
i'm still pulling blood out from under things,
nails and telescopes and cotton swabs,
it's sweet — it really is
how you try to smile one tooth at a time.
i made you a scarf
and you didn't even know it was yours when you asked if you could have it.
i could smell the turned earth in your hands, and for this i could not, not ever, diminish.