of her feet, as if waking up to the first day of summer. The halfway house is bare, no medical equipment, just an uncovered mattress and a broken lamp. Fully empty and in disrepair. Sister. Sister, someone. Burgundy puddles on the floor. IX. In one breath, she blew up all the dust carpeting the walls and countertops. It hovered for a moment, then burst out the metal grid of the screen door into a diaphanous breeze across the backyard. She followed down the green ground and onto the pier standing in the river, legs thick with primordial algae. Plucking her lyre, she couldn’t help but look down into the depths of the troubadour river, foaming with Kanagawa fury. In the turbulent skin, she saw herself and dropped her bone. Where have all the young men gone? There was no nubile beauty to be lost in, no dawn breaking across her face. Step in said the river, and she did. Watch the minutes wash off and away to a distant delta and melt into the sea of lost time. Spanish roses floated past her and faded like bright barges into the horizon, but the smell stayed a moment. Wet as whaleskin, Suzanne sank into the water, moss rock bottom slipping underfoot and the trees arched their backs to block the sun and the wind whipped and whistled through their leaves and somewhere whippoorwills were making love and tiny fish tucked around her nubby ankles and kissed the small of her back for air bubbles and for the life of her she couldn’t keep from floating.
Michael Wolf 101