from “Red, Requiem”


To be in the mist, to
be mist or missed, I
am a cautionary
miss, cautionary tale, red
ribbon in my hair, I feed
on mist as light as air.

Hazy & no-color, as if
only half-there— as if still
in the process of becoming
— abandoned
playground in the heart
of the forest, broken &
lost, like most things
in our forest, like most
things are, mostly broken
toys, & rusty, but some still
work a bit & a bit
of fun to sit on a squeaky
swing in the middle of a silent
forest. Strangely soothing
the squeak singing through
the mist & dark, soft scream
sung squeak escaping
a balloon.

If this balloon
didn’t have a string it would
simply float away, I’ve got no
on me.

Whenever I get to her
house, it’s dark, no matter what
the season or how early I leave
home or how long
it takes me, it’s night
when I arrive & all
mist & strange. Shiver
in my bones.

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