in perwinkle
What of these intentions
clamoring for space
now that truth has woken
from its isotonic still.
We chose which parts of
life applied like we choose
a fine chemise, finding its
touch, its flattering color,
but we lived them all
the same.

There are windows half-
opened, half-closed,
spitting out the nails
that restrain. Even
when I didn't know
the difference
I could feel cold air rush out
and heat slip in
with the flies. I pander

to the woman I am,
unbroken
and relearn. There is
no one to pay
when a window opens,
no one to pay
when the next is closed;
we look through the glass
and become what lies
on either side.


Mia Moore