She rolled a 5×5 matrix around on her tongue, and it was harder than watching her with a lollipop.
Is your boyfriend picking you up? It was unnecessary, so he didn’t say it.
Instead, “You’re drunk,” he pointed out, not un-humorously.
She leaned back into the couch, and stretched her arms upward with a wince, with evident satisfaction. The matrix glimmered on her tongue as she laughed. Her eyes were sleepy and contented, like a cat’s.
He imagined that she was imagining the arc of a satellite launched up and out into orbit.
“Not really!” she retorted. But she had water rather than beer now, and while she looked faraway in that sleepy, contented way, her expressions also made the two of them closer than they appeared. There was a half-cushion’s worth of couch between them. Rows and columns rattled against the edge of her glass as she drank, the sound like an ice cube.
“You can always stay here, if you want. We have room.” The couch. His bedroom.
The party had died down too much for anything they said to be confidential. A gamine smile hid the numbers in her mouth, and her utter comfort in the curves of the couch was evident even as she put her glass down on the coffee table, and stood up.
With you, she hung her armor
In the cabinet
There were suns in your eyes and that
But fire doesn’t keep and she can’t stand
Not to shine
She loves nothing so much
As sunlight on armor
Image from Mickey Shannon Photography
The Crone of the Westward Hunch
For her Eastern twin went searching
And beneath her no road rushed
And none was long kept waiting
She took the lonely mountain paths
And the cowherd’s grassy trail
Towns and thoroughfares she passed
By day and starlight pale
Rare was the one who, pausing
Heard more than the branches sigh
In a wind down from the highlands
When the Westward Crone was nigh Continue reading “The Crone of the Westward Hunch”