On Acquiescence and Its Opposite
She gets quiet after each full moon, her intuition waning almost immediately. Before, a culmination exploding, something more than ever could be. But now, all of her eyes, swollen and foggy, lock from the inside. She takes, again, to eating flowers. Floating on the thin nest of spider silk and honeyed salamander skin, she watches the heaving trees. How do they withstand so much? Each gust a battering snarl crawling hard from cloud to bough to trunk to deep root shiver. She bends not nearly so much. All back ache and bruised knee. All busted lip and broken skin. On the edge of the dew damp bushes one crow thrashes its morning meal. The snake, like an old worn out shoelace, flops dead in the bird’s clenched beak.
Dear Suburbia 