Bob and Weave

Inside

85 Inside In the most fickle of Marches a dog haunts my street. No, it is a child. My eyes are not so good. She sings under the cottonwood. She sits on my front porch, a splash of gold and maroon, an eyewatering blur of wind. I watch her through my blinds, her oblivion my wound. What if I trapped her in a glass jar, kept her on a shelf in an abandoned room where all the lights keep burning, and I were outside, my skin warming to the sun’s promise, my eyes alive inside my face. ...