Monday, February 21, 2011

As if the moon were still ripe for decontamination

In the sun, he lies on his back and rips the hole larger with his thumb. In the shadows later, he drinks half a warm diet coke. In the mirror, I check my teeth, to see if they're still broken. In the light cast by the bug-zapper, he plays his tapes, swings his daughter right and left, until her wrists bruise and she laughs loudest. In the fields, I lose my purse and one of my flip-flops, the daisy kind. In the backyard, I set up a miniature city, made of paper-mached milk bottles and Christmas lights, right at the edge, as if we still knew each other.


Made with the help of this:

and the text of my next book, Echo Park.

(also, a little bit from a picture on Radish King)


Elisabeth said...

Bad romance as you suggest, a bad romance, but wonderful poetry.

Christine said...

Thanks, Elisabeth! Did you try the frequent phrases machine?