A Change of Address

Here's a wall where a tunnel was before. The tunnel leads to an underground lake. Scent of burning feathers. You skinny-dip with a red-haired white girl; you want to touch, you don't. Your father's face rises to the surface, his eyes closed. He sputters, reaching for you.

You're dressed again, surrounded by candles and chanting. The lake, greenish blue and cloudy, recedes.

You check out your bangs in the mirrored window, smooth them down with your fingers.

A dozen huddled figures are revealed. Whitish stone, faded and worn. They face each other. A dozen sticky red lollipops. Hold on to your flashlights, keep the extra batteries dry.

A drawing of a ruined castle. A light pencil sketch. Some leafless trees looming. Nobody around for miles.

The crack in the ceiling gets bigger. A dark cloth over your eyes. It was like a family, a family in a circle. He was wrapped in shower curtains and duct tape, now floating face down.

The blue water in the kitchen sink, cloudy with detergent. Only salt and baking soda left in the cupboard. Little white humps stick out, like knobs of a spine. I dreamt this once. There's a clock somewhere, too.

Crude drawing of a leopard on a cave wall. The words, “I sold your bird” painted in blue. Three fingers in your mouth, a numbness in your face and arms.

Shaindel Beers is also doing a poem a day.

Sugar Easter Egg

The pale yellow frosting draped around the entrance to the green world had a faint lemon flavor and tasted of dust. The walls were sweet, but rough on the tongue and impossible to bite. The clear cover between the inner and outer world was plastic. The figures inside did not move, and could never be shook loose. Once there was a small pink carriage. Once a family of mice was having tea. There was grass but no sky. The light that did leak in was blocked by her eye, or had to seep through the spotted candy walls. Variegated. At first, they had to be held steady with both hands, but they shrank each year, so she could manage it with one fist by the time she was 8.

National Poetry writing whatever

The Missed Opportunity

A girl and a woman in a boat, the woman's face hidden by a large hat. A large mound of earth sits in the middle of the boat, seperates them. The girl is not sure if the pile is dirt all the way through, or if the dirt is covering something. Sometimes the dirt shudders a bit, but that might be a breeze. The girl asks the woman where they are going, or what her name is, but the woman seems to be sleeping.The row boat is surrounded by gray and black swirls in the water. Pencil marks cover the boat's shadow on the river. The girl's eyes are dark gray, staring at something beyond us. She is nearly all white, a smudged, paper white, buttoned up to her chin, her hands covered with pale gloves.