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)