Last night, I became a taboo woman, tantric veins breaking into unencumbered branches of witched trees that fell, nearly fell. They hung in limp moaning slumber, fulfilled after the thunder had hit them like an orgasm last night. The bird feeder, still quivered beneath, on a rusted hook. Inside its trellis walls, I floated, fragile, flailing, urgently fabricating myself for another ordinary day. Across our fence, the absent neighbors show up today at their patio hand in hand. Their hearts are full.Like a photograph.
Photo by Travis Grossen on Unsplash
