By Rebecca L. Morrison
I befriend sounds and echoes;
ease them at my side in slumber until
they rest their crowns in the
bend where shoulder links neck
and murmur to me in
shifting states of wakefulness
the names of friends they’ve known since
childhood, the names of strangers
that consume them from afar.
I draw Cupid’s bow, right eye winking.
And I dance at weddings,
jovial as they titter,
obsessed after too many
flutes of champagne.
Yet these friends are harbored instincts,
native. I dismiss them until they’ve leaked,
bathing my leaf with their viscous, milky
stench until they’ve flooded my flaring nostrils,
swamping the expanse behind my eyes.