by Sophie Gregory

Glued a voice to the ear. Left its shoes on the mat. My father’s Japanese movies. Imprinted

stomach scars. Showed the thing what was there. Not much. Blue ripples. Oars in an Italian

canal. Two blind pianists. A bucket of Elmer’s. Far from the factory laughs were miracles.

Sounds of pasta boiling over. The brakes were shit. Cave cases. Instruments of brass. Made

forts. Kept together with glue. The roof got sticky. If it dripped the moon was giving us milk.

Summers went. Everything was beautiful. Winters went. Tied false with the perfect bow.

Layed in the snow. Quiet. The head voice even in the stillness. Falling in the fishing hole. Got

buried in frozen water. Wet glue. Even kids know to keep water away from fresh crafts. Took

ill in the bathtub. Sometime between glances. Changes happen. Cheaper stuff. A month. Glue

peeling off your palm. A person’s fleshy funeral. One meant for the corn snake. The days that

wilt. Chrysanthemums. Real pirates. Didn’t think much kept its beauty anymore. Sunflowers

have been off the map for weeks. Don’t need it to see. Water over the ribs. From bathtub to

bed. Sun shined on horseshoe prints in my skin. Repeat. Turned nocturnal. Name means

wisdom. Invisible ink glows through highly lit eyes. I am the insomniac detective. Needle

coffee in the morning. Nights too. These days. Dizzy. I am. I am still. Thank space. The Owl.

This piece previously appeared in Jet Fuel Review.