Yellow Sweater

The blanket folded neatly at the bottom of my shelf is a patchwork one. It’s pieced together from tidy squares: bright pinks and pastel blues and little boxy animals. Coloring the very geometric loin’s mane, is a discreet dose of yellow.

I venerate the wet rag. 
It’s a very visceral faith,
scrubbed raw and full of steam. 
I feel most alive when I am doing the dishes. 
Confronted with the sticky byproducts of eating, 

She stared into the fire, prodding the coals dispassionaly. Normally stories would dance, their shape burning in the flames. But tonight, all she saw was was the ghostly orange.

This morning the southern forest fires were reflected in my rainy sunrise.
The grey sky was filled with a color that shouldn't have been there.   

I thought, for a moment, 
that it might be the end of the world.

The rain lilts with the wind. You pound the piano keys with ferocity, as if challenging the storm to steal your notes. You look up, penitrating the thick glass of the window with your proud eyes. I see you watching everything fall.

With the light of my lamp, I wrote. The words amassed themselves in my belly until I felt like a star: hot enough for alchemy. My toes tingled.