SPRING 2013 (Issue 78)
 

Ashley Toliver

from Housekeeping

Dear stone fruit: I haven’t wept anywhere in at least seven days.  I go on gargling with port wine, heavy dashes of clipped lullaby.  Outside the lunar engine clicks and flinches.  You mount hardware at your inseams, steer the room full of magnets.  Dear stone fruit: today’s is a season for waking to ankle-weights roused from our darkest houses.  The light angles over the net in a drastic lunge to pivot.  Point.  Counterpoint.  All that we came for irradiates.