Eye Of Night and Firefly Dogs
An eye of the night page
grunting and bleating
its night of dead
None of the dogs
ever caught light again
She sold the his-and-hers luggage. “Are you sure you won’t come?” she pleaded. “I wish you’d go ahead and invite me,” he answered. “I’ll hang this prism to remind you of me,” she murmured, pulling the shade.
He hated the silence of the postcards from her new home. Missing him so much she puckered the percale of her hotel pillow. She phoned. He picked up the receiver to hear all the fun she was having without him—just as they’d always planned.
She returned late one night with suitcases full of garbage and began carving holes in the wall to fit it all in. “There’s room on this table” she sang as she hacked. “It’s where I’ll put my new thumb, and over there, space for one of the knees I returned with.
I have bottled my tongue and will keep it for a special occasion.” How deftly she avoided unpacking, he observed, scolding, “Now you clash with the couch!” “Just as plaid as ever,” she giggled, “See, I am sewing
these glasses onto your forehead so you can’t avert your gaze. And give me your hand so I can put it in my hair. Feel how short it’s grown. Let me wrap it around your knuckles like a mitten. Let me tie you down and feed you my heart, chunk by olive oil-soaked chunk.
You’re choking, let me start an IV. Why are you still clad in black, do I mean that much to you?”
He quietly peeled skin from her shins with his unclipped toenails. “Cry. Weeping won’t obscure my familiar scent,” she trilled, bleeding,
“I eat lavender all the time now. Breathe me! I will bathe you with this handmade soap.” He shrunk from the fecal cloth. “You stayed home without me!” she screamed. “Where are your souvenirs?”