By Lizzie Simner
The jellified mind melds and unmelds
Ideas drip from her sky like mercury
What is it?
She walks to the beach, alone
Yellow zippo lighter in hand
A bud of flame, an offering to the gods.
Someone is listening.
She holds a pebble in her hand.
She no longer reaches from the sky
But from a horizontal line
That pushes her
To the side of her own life.
She looks out to the intersection of green and pale grey
The frame she is in
is quivering, alive and horrifyingly bright
Morning is coming, she knows,
To cast light on the ineluctable truth
Morning is coming,
And she’s afraid.