from Heart of Palm


My singing voice is gone. One person tells another person what is transcribed on the page. The first person wears sunglasses and leans against the window, smoking. In my fingers, the marks of this pen frantically scratch out the last rays of the sun.

Somebody, it can’t be me, has just written the words, dappled light falls on royal gala.

I just remembered what you said. The skin on the back of my neck. Static? Yes. Shoulders? Of course. Tingling? Only when I move.