Blame the machine
for the fact that white petals on the water’s surface
have closed my mouth to the possibilities
and I refuse to swallow the song
that sticks in my throat
until my husband, lying beside me in bed,
lifts himself on one elbow in the dark.
“Breathe,” he says to move me with the holy spirit,
but this is less about movement
than about a failure of transportation;
about a woman whose jewelry knots in the box
and requires surgery at the business end
of fingernails and straight pins;
about chains that snap and reds that turn blue,
blues that run sluggish and forget to breathe,
giving rise to lightning on the horizon
as dendrite and neuron drown.
From under water, my eyes
see the plum petals,
the white rafts floating on the great sea
where all the rivers empty.