My mother read me poetry as a last resort. She spoke of snowdrops, a great white land of nodding heads on tiny stilts. she fed them through the mouthpiece one by one like lines of-
I am not a mathematician. I have never been able to see the equations, laid inside your skull like symbols drawn on water. But sometimes, I have seen the oceans move inside your pupil,
The sink is pink candy over metal faces sides of stainless steel where lines engraved all run in veins of raspberry, all is pink. Rough patches of chrome are pink. The yellow sponge