in which someone walked into a house after a hurricane had just passed through. It smashed an easel to pieces and broke the row of little vases on the shelf. Then the weather changed again and the windows wept, no longer able to contain themselves. That was the yeast that sustained us then. Birds still sang in the trees though their feet barely touched our roof. With scissors we cut chains of paper dolls, hand holding the next and the next. We washed our clothes and hung them on the line, where they waved at everyone: happy to be rinsed and wrung before our bodies put them on again. We wiped our hands stained with vinegar and oil, blood and sawdust. White jasmines opened along the fence, unnerving us with their scent.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.