Every morning, she\'d navigate
the sadness, the dark soup
of her brain.
Mountains of floral bedspreads
and broken disco balls.
Still, everything was bare.
Bone-dry.
A dull tinkling of piano keys
in her stomach.
A flurry of stained-glass windows
and black ballerina flats.
A low, rumbling thunder in her ribs.
Too many syllables in the sentences
he gave her.
Too many satin ribbons.
The blue jazz she\'d wear like a dress.
Somewhere, a red orchid.
A violent flashing on the horizon.