Reflect She's out there – the real one, I guess. I don't know whether to get mad at her or get freaked out or feel sorry for her. Nobody was kind enough to tell me how this hoo-ha all got started.
I want to imagine that she had nothing to do with it. That somebody snatched her brush and figured out how to make me out of the DNA in her leftover hair. I would laugh trying to picture her searching for it, with a puzzled look on her face. Little did she know there was a whole other girl running around somewhere with the same strawberry blond hair – the kind that barrettes slid out of, and curled on a hot summer day.
All because of a missing brush.
Or maybe she did know. Maybe mommy and daddy told her to get inside a suped-up copy machine, or another mad scientist's invention. You know – just to see what would come out.
"It'll be fun," they would have told her, "and when we're done, yo
Noah's WifeNoah's Wife
Mother warned me of men like him,
But then, sense will get overruled
By such ridiculous things
But that can't save you when your man
Is lost in scribbles and whispers,
Working feverishly on plans
For imaginary storms.
And even I have been deafened
By the sea of sharp whisperings,
Concocted at the gossip wells -
That madness widowed me.
But the rain fell. No vain pleadings,
Or my shouting and silent cries,
My eyes following billowing clouds
As they chased back the sun.
And the rain fell. The ground
Melting into dirty swirls as
Beasts snorted and trotted through,
Big and small in all thought colors.
And the rain fell. A rough-hewed ship
Ready to roll into large waves,
Having been sanded by the hands
And the rain fell. The man once mad,
Took my hand, as I met his eyes,
And pulled me aboard towards life
BreathI stepped forward and fell into
A world of zero-gravity, and was
By a blue that pretended to be light.
That wrapped me in its unseen arms and
Vowed to keep me.
Crippled with no life jacket,
Small hands flinging for the sky,
But no murder ballads
Would be written for my name,
And cold concrete
Would not become my house.
And the Weaver of Stories spun
Little legs kicked,
Small hands reached,
And fingers (thank the Lord for fingernails!)
Found the pool edge.
Arms and legs clinging and
Out of the blue death's grasp.
Skin scraping against concrete,
Like a worm, lay fresh in the sun.
Just like that.
And I marched in my pink bathing suit
Towards a table filled with food,
Someone else and yet