her best friend emailed me after i sent a few feelers out, she killed herself shortly after the hurricane.
what a jerk.
what a beauty.
she said she’d found her soulmate, and she never gave me that flapper dress.
i pressed the lily into the pocket at the back of my journal
where ticket stubs
business cards go,
the back is mottled
the structure is alive with the flame of the evening,
the carpal crunches like bones when i press it with my knuckles, deep dull on the back of my hand. Two ovaries and a stamen, gender variance, male impersonator.
my words smell like honey and cigarillos
the bosom of goddesses tucked away in a book.