The boom car stomps its music up and down the street while inside houses dishes clatter a rattlesnake warning, and cranked-up bass bounces sound waves off T-shirts and blouses of residents watching the car pass a parade full of mad, marching bands.
That some patch of dust on that hard-to-get-to shelf yonder could be dead skin cells sloughed off her bent, pain-racked body more than 2 years ago now. Or that some microbial creature still spirals through my twisted, maze-like intestines, a parting gift from her, one last kiss, that last time we shared bodily fluids.
Moonlight pools, as if delayed, in the folds of the duvet, her second husband sleeping, lips pursed, as if rehearsing. He spoke in his sleep their first night together. She marvels at how he remembers dreams. Over coffee he’ll describe his sister appearing at the Redondo house near the shutters by the rose bed— only
