Georgia O’Keeﬀe Makes a Life for Herself Bees in the desert wing the horizon’s line: gold weeds, gold brush mounting up then drifting hollow to abandon the noonday. Here is where my stomach drops out of my body because appetite is tied to memory and there is no water to drain from my churning dreams that persist from hours spent loving a ghost. I’d hike up my skirt: little burlesque-- little beginning-- only to find myself faded into the sickled moon: motionless above the earth. It’s better this way-to lift oneself into the late hours with a steady trust, and if I so choose, to move about the snow and chill on my own terms: to fan over Midwestern cornfields in rows of mist or as cold white light sifting among the stars sewing their own field in which to work or to rest. There is no loneliness in the magnitude of gravity-in the supernova’s collapse: black void carving down into another multiverse that is only somewhere else to dine.
96 | PHOEBE 49.1
Fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, and art selected for phoebe's 49.1 issue.