ensam.

“I’ll cover you.”


Foreign words; unknown language.
She is not covered-
She is entirely exposed.
She is bare.
She is naked.
She is as unprotected as they come.

The words ring out impossibly.
A promise never made, an oath never heard, an echo of something that never actually happened.

She’s not sure which is stronger, the knowledge or the feeling.

Metaphorically spread-eagle, realistically curled in the fetal position.

Empty, she will not be filled.
Lost, she will not be found.
Shield-less.
Guard-less.
Feckless.
Reckless.

Un-covered.

kilele.

Like a cursor on a bone-white page,

Subtraction.
This is a subtraction equation.
She looks at her watch (the object in question).
Its mathematical terra-bound spiral matches...

Thoughts shift to the natural disasters filling the space between the ellipses in the sentence last.

It lines up.

The tornados, hurricanes, waterspouts, and maelstroms are always headed for the same place.
That damn four-letter word.
We don’t speak of it.
WASP Rules.
[this.is.how.we.do.things.

this.is.how.we.do.things.]

Jumbled in the jungle, drowning in the air -no water necessary-
Compasses are for pussies.
If one can’t use the heavens which were alloted to us for this purpose, one must just deserve to be lost.
Mustn’t one?

‘Good luck, Chuck,’ she thinks, ‘with your wind-up dolly.’
The doll hospital’s out of business, and there’s a wrench shortage.
Hard times, these.
She was torn out of her pretty plastic packaging long ago by an over-eager two-year-old destructivo.
Batteries not included.

d - o - w - n

we go.

elliler.

Ten points for execution.
The motions are performed perfectly.
Definitely an A in Determination and Composure.
The sad smile is a nice touch, too.

Not a hair out of place, she checks off her lists methodically.
It doesn’t make the rainbows on her arms fade any faster.
In quiet defiance, she begins wearing pearls in matching colors.
Acceptance can be beautiful.

It’s the small victories.

The drone of the vacuum is no engine snarl,
but it gets the job done.
She hangs a speedometer above her bed by way of substitute.

Days go in, and then out again.
Perfectly.
Of course.

Now, if it weren’t for that pesky, gnawing hole somewhere around her middle...

sottosopra.

She’s grabbing at straws.
M.P. knows this.
The knowledge just makes her cling on all the more frantically.

Her eyes wild, she searches room after room for a solution.
Doors slam, pigeons flutter hastily to quieter trees.

‘It’s all for naught, it’s all for naught, it’s all for naught.’

Who says pigeons can’t talk?

Meanwhile, the chicken of the sky is doing what she does best.
She’s a hollow little hen, too frail for flight, always nesting where she oughtn’t.
Birds never learn.

(It’s twelve o’clock midnight and all is not well.)

Tired of roosting, merely existing, one day she joins the cockfights.