Oven belly churning,
heating the kitchen for
currant cream scones.
Outside, gales knock leaves
to the wet dark earth.
Blue sky hides behind the storm.
Standing barefoot on tile,
I, half cold,
dreaming of wool scarves and snow
and white plumes of breath
at the bus stop in the morning.
Last night I became a paint-eyed doll with a broken leg.
You can fix human limbs but not doll limbs,
because we are only made of porcelain, which doesn’t fuse back together.
We stood in the drunk crowd, tired, and listened.
Angel songs of passion, drugs, and God spilled into us.
I swayed against you to the melody, asking for love in the only way I know how,
fumbling for something to take my breath away with its sheer beauty.
I listened to save my life, or to give me reason not to.
We dreamed of lighting cigarettes against the persistent wind,
of driving to the coast and watching the city lights flicker like a mirage.
At least that’s what I was dreaming of. Were you?
My leg broke in place of my heart, because I needed something tangible,
and I fell hard on the concrete when life shoved me.
No hospitals or casts or prescriptions for me.
Eyes glazed over emerald and my body hardened like glass.