so, more from the borrowed title category. not sure what's going on here, yet.
maybe that's good?
Still Life with Wounded Mattress
She spent all morning in bed alone, falling in love.
In the evening she learned to hate.
The first part sounds easy, almost inevitable:
how one walks around with a mouth made of vacuum
(an absence, an emptiness, a longing), while the other has a mouth
carved from glass (transparent, fragile, tender). How they meet.
How their mouths form a bell jar and nothing is as it was.
The second part is a bitch:
one learns the power of puzzle pieces embracing,
the joys of compatibility, and the simple yet satisfying
taste of becoming, at last, indispensable
in a very specific corner of the world.
Then the lesson plan changes course.
Despite duality and the long, desperate nights exploring
the nuances of inseparability, a vacuum will always be empty,
and glass still shatters under too much, or too little pressure.
“Oh, wicked seasons of change,” she sobbed,
trapped in the dusky confines of her bed. “I salute you!”
She knew when she was beat.
No matter how hot the sun burns, the ocean still lifts
its wanton lips toward the tawdry song of the moon.
No matter how the moon is a pale reflection of the sun’s face,
or how the sun is a center, a core, a pulling together,
and the moon is a satellite, an echo, a hand holding a mirror.
No matter the awful weight of the sun’s gravity,
she knew she seemed distant, and felt the tiniest nudge
as she imagined them getting slightly farther out of reach.
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