I count: One sock on, one

sock off. Four braids falling

apart on my pillow while I

enjoy the juxtaposition of

the dirt ridden palimpsest

of melon rind and the neon meat

more than the sweetness by itself.

Eight larkspur sit box wine, four

fistfuls of purple mizuna.

The air around me does not

move. (Floorboards ship-creak) but

three fat robins weight the

immature arms of the ash tree

outside. Beneath them, the neighbor's

two small dogs leave small shits

I sidestep their stares and

surging heat stink while reading

your texts in the morning. Like letters.

Tall and loopy. My phone may erase

the simple, fruitless joy of trying to interpret

someone else's handwriting, but still

I like to think (one sock

on) of your knuckles, the small crescent

moons and their adjacent flecks

of white meteorites in your nail

beds beside you fighting to keep sleep

with one sock off.

Jade Hancer lives and resists in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho with her many potted plants. She earned her BSN from Washington State University. When she’s not working as a Registered Nurse, she makes art and wanders the nearby forests. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Arcturus, Glint, and Leaping Clear. (2019)