All the Prettiest Bones
December wrote me a note in passing, red ink on yellow paper dotted with irises. She’s got a wicked sense of humor, that one. It bled through the envelope. My address became somewhere else. Dirt road walkdown, somewhere near the scent of electric eels, postal code set in Morse rhyme. Dot dot dash. It’s time to move
on. Spring and I used to be friends. Then she fell. Now she hangs out with a rougher crowd, smoking dead tree limbs with the rest of the crackling fireheads. I envy the way they smell, like climbing into a barrel full of burn, shooting skyward in swirling dust. There is a dance she does. Hop hop step. There’s a certain way to
move. When I was twelve, Solstice spit-licked me and promised she’d be my sister until she died. She died once a year, became bitter bones under networked roots, grubbied and grab-handed. Her vines got braided with ribbons and bows, then with boys and bare breasts. There’s a thing she says. Oh. Oh. Oh. Vowels get
in the way of my mouth. Autumn had hair the color of what you’d expect. Dragon’s firebreath. Midas’ leaves. Then she dyed it craven. It absorbs all the light, gives back nothing but my own black pupils. It falls from her head, litters my pillow with possessives. My bones hollow her cheeks. Nowhere the world is
Image taken with iPhone.
Words written by the fire. With coffee. Of course.
Time Taken 7 minutes.
Brain on work. I have a lot of it to do.