Sideways, I’m spinning stories until they’re lassoed around a waning moon—quickly, quickly now, before she disappears.
I secure them proper like—the honda knot, hangman’s knot, that fucking fisherman’s eye—each splitting thread of a reluctant noose. I try spinning anywhere, spinning nowhere, spinning in and out of line until the stories refuse to be spun a moment more.
I take your stories and his stories and his stories, too. I take her stories, most of their stories, until the outside stories look like my story, the one I’ve been dreaming for all thirty-something of these years.
And for a moment I think I’ve got the pulse of it all—this blistering human collective—until a grand mal moment unravels each darling thread from a tipsy-turvy crescent.
She’s a propellor now, moving further from this crooked sphere.
I’m an anchor now, treading neck-deep in this unforgiving earth.
Though I know tantrums are unbecoming in a world bloated with nice-to-meet-yous, I rage against the poppy bloom—a prayer for fields lit red with the fires of transformation rather than the savage whispers of pacifying petals.
A crimson wild enough to resurrect the moon.
For tonight, I suck back with force to wipe clean the stained glass of a wicked history; the story of the girl blurs as the story of the woman comes into focus.
Lines dissolve and the word “habit” lingers in a charcoal sky.
These stories got away and mother moon is disappointed in me again.