aphroditemine's profile

you aren't exactly lens-worthy, Patty Pennington, soft f-stops down hallways and grey drops of developing fluid caught like curlicues of your film canister hair nights alone, days alone seeking contrast, depth of field, rules of thirds but Patty, with your ancient finger on the release ready to capture something, anything your life has become light fog

Covering my hands with my ears so that your words come out syllables instead and the ambient noise is no longer and I’m in space aboard your mom and I can’t hear you no matter how loud you hell then my toes curl and my nose bleeds and tomorrow never cries because the world is ending faster than we can say uncle but the sound is flashing out and in in rapid concussion and mouths are moving crying out for more food more Jesus more free checking but the phone just won’t pick up and when it goes ...

Her clothes spread wide; And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up: Hamlet, Act 4, Scene 7; William Shakespeare My Ophelia doesn’t drown; no water dares to swallow fire Like oil, it drips off her, coating and then falling free She doesn’t taste wet by the time my lips find her Smoke, fire; yes. But nothing to douse it with, nothing to put her out It flicks from her fingertips and like a shiny sea-creature she dives in Breathing, finally in her natural environment, her lungs fill The oranges,...

The girl reaches out and touches a ghost lonely there within the icy fog and she is stuck behind the wheel where her hands are stuck in a wave, fingers cold as the dead in the midst of the night And it swallows the car quickly, night moving in around the myriad ghosts that call out with their voices, dead and blend into the thick, white fog So she tightens her tiny fingers around the steering wheel to turn the stubborn wheel in the glassy, ice-filled night Finding feeling again in her fingers...

Softer, smaller, less coarse, less worldly, painted, pale Clapping only slightly off tempo, clutching too-small hips Skirts and smiles flashing like the tigers of my youth The question sinking in my chest: When did this become my sister? Ponytail swinging: “I’m so glad you came.”