|
|
She leaves the house with patches of light
in her eyes, as if each iris was under a shroud
of threadbare muslin. Her left side pricks, she goes half numb,
and I panic, confusing the sparkling aura
of a migraine with the finitude of a stroke. Back home, I make chicken fingers for our kids,
while her tongue limply muddles, and she rests
as the flowering heat of the oven shines upon me. Later, our son and I watch a small plane flying
through an azure-washed sky, the firmament bathed in a kind of bioluminescence. Everything
fades, silverstruck to mothlight. |
|