13/30

13/30
Once, I spent three days in a
bivalvian embrace--clapped
between siphons, spitting bubbles, pretending
the world didn’t look like a VanGogh from so many
feet under the waves. I nodded at all the
appropriate times.

I think storm clouds roll in like vinyl. I
buried your heart out in the garden and weeks
later my carrots looked like weeds. I never
was one for gardening. I do not mean
to say that your heart was a weed.

The old ladies that are witches always
let their gardens grow too tall.

I read that our bridge in Pasadena
is known as the suicide bridge. I read
that the ghost of a mother
haunts it, clutching her baby to her breast.
In my mind, this bridge is made of chalk. Bends
backwards and then folds over eight times.

This makes you as small as you can get.

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