Something Borrowed
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.