A journal of narrative writing.
Fall



The water rusted in the tap,
and I rusted where you touched
me, sluicing at the bottom
of your palms. You called me green 
because of the times I couldn't speak,
when we woke with the dark sitting over
us and leafed through our clothes.
The moonlight was querulous
and too dry
and we thought, winter,
learning the secret corners of the word,
growing used to the feeling 
of oxidation. I waited to bleed,
and when it came I throbbed, my iron middle
pressing against tides. I wore red beads
to breakfast, coming in with the fog, clacking.
We found spirits in the butter, eating
salt out of the day.
There were things we learned
in our sleep, crumbling together,
sharing dreams. I called my hair
auburn, and you looked at it and said,
You will never be a ghost with hair like that.
You will never come looking for me.

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