a poorly dressed pantomime
the day you lost your toy soldiers we knew we had to forget everything. The sky teetered on shards of light and we draped every piece of furniture in a black hole. Plastic gravity made out of space. You announced your death: “by knife!” I announced mine: “by love!” And mother clutched the room saying, “I’m dying from the inside.” We dropped our weapons and stared at our shoes, unpolished and unpolishable. Like a ton of bricks, we knew exactly what had happened and we stopped hoping for the returning sounds of thunder.
frankie bb is a map of eyes that have yet to assemble into a crowd, a jaw bone that dislikes being called “mandible” and prefers “crescent catcher.” A guilty harvester who believes milk is best served wild.
A Song for Frankie